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=====The Red-Headed League=====
===Sir Arthur Conan Doyle===

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the
autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very
stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an
apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled
me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he
said cordially.

“I was afraid that you were engaged.”

“So I am. Very much so.”

“Then I can wait in the next room.”

“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper
in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will
be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small
fat-encircled eyes.

“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting
his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I
know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and
outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have
shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to
chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish
so many of my own little adventures.”

“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I
observed.

“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went
into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that
for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life
itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the
imagination.”

“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”

“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for
otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your
reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr.
Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning,
and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular
which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that
the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with
the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where
there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed.
As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the
present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events
is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.
Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence
your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has
not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the
story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As
a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of
events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar
cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to
admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.”

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside
pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column,
with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee,
I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my
companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his
dress or appearance.

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore
every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese,
pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd’s check trousers,
a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab
waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of
metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown
overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him.
Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man
save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and
discontent upon his features.

Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head
with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. “Beyond the obvious
facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff,
that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done
a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the
paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?”
he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour.
It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.”

“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than
your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more
developed.”

“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”

“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use
an arc-and-compass breastpin.”

“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”

“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five
inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you
rest it upon the desk?”

“Well, but China?”

“The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist
could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo
marks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That
trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate pink is quite
peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from
your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple.”

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I thought
at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was
nothing in it after all.”

“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake in
explaining. ‘//Omne ignotum pro magnifico//,’ you know, and my poor
little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so
candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”

“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger planted
halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is what began it all. You
just read it for yourself, sir.”

I took the paper from him and read as follows:

~~~~“TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE:\\
~~~~~~~~On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon,\\
~~~~Pennsylvania, U.S.A., there is now another vacancy open which entitles\\
~~~~a member of the League to a salary of £ 4 a week for purely nominal\\
~~~~services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above\\
~~~~the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday,\\
~~~~at eleven o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League,\\
~~~~7 Pope’s Court, Fleet Street.”

“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twice read
over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in
high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?” said he.
“And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about
yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had
upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper
and the date.”

“It is //The Morning Chronicle// of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago.”

“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”

“Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,”
said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; “I have a small pawnbroker’s
business at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a very large affair,
and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I
used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I
would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half
wages so as to learn the business.”

“What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth, either. It’s
hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes;
and I know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I
am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I
put ideas in his head?”

“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an //employé// who comes
under the full market price. It is not a common experience among
employers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is not as
remarkable as your advertisement.”

“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a fellow
for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be
improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit
into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but on
the whole he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in him.”

“He is still with you, I presume?”

“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking
and keeps the place clean---that’s all I have in the house, for I am a
widower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three
of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do
nothing more.

“The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he
came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very
paper in his hand, and he says:

“‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.’

“‘Why that?’ I asks.

“‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the League of the
Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets
it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men,
so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what to do with the money.
If my hair would only change colour, here’s a nice little crib all
ready for me to step into.’

“‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very
stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to
go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the
door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much of what was going on outside,
and I was always glad of a bit of news.

“‘Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?’ he asked
with his eyes open.

“‘Never.’

“‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the
vacancies.’

“‘And what are they worth?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it
need not interfere very much with one’s other occupations.’

“Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the
business has not been over good for some years, and an extra couple of
hundred would have been very handy.

“‘Tell me all about it,’ said I.

“‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, ‘you can see for
yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where
you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League
was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very
peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great
sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he
had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with
instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to
men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay
and very little to do.’

“‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red-headed men who would
apply.’

“‘Not so many as you might think,’ he answered. ‘You see it is really
confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from
London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn.
Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is
light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery
red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in;
but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of
the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.’

“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my
hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if
there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance
as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so
much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered
him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me.
He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and
started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement.

“I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From
north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his
hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet
Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked like a
coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in
the whole country as were brought together by that single
advertisement. Every shade of colour they were---straw, lemon, orange,
brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were
not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how
many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding
would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed
and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up
to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon
the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we
wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office.”

“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked Holmes as
his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff.
“Pray continue your very interesting statement.”

“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a
deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even
redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up,
and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would
disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy
matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man was much
more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door
as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.

“‘This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,’ said my assistant, ‘and he is willing to
fill a vacancy in the League.’

“‘And he is admirably suited for it,’ the other answered. ‘He has every
requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.’ He
took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair
until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my
hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.

“‘It would be injustice to hesitate,’ said he. ‘You will, however, I am
sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.’ With that he seized
my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain.
‘There is water in your eyes,’ said he as he released me. ‘I perceive
that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have
twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales
of cobbler’s wax which would disgust you with human nature.’ He stepped
over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that
the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below,
and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was
not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the manager.

“‘My name,’ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the
pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a
married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’

“I answered that I had not.

“His face fell immediately.

“‘Dear me!’ he said gravely, ‘that is very serious indeed! I am sorry
to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and
spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is
exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.’

“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not
to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few
minutes he said that it would be all right.

“‘In the case of another,’ said he, ‘the objection might be fatal, but
we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as
yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?’

“‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,’ said I.

“‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!’ said Vincent Spaulding. ‘I
should be able to look after that for you.’

“‘What would be the hours?’ I asked.

“‘Ten to two.’

“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes,
especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day;
so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings.
Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see
to anything that turned up.

“‘That would suit me very well,’ said I. ‘And the pay?’

“‘Is £ 4 a week.’

“‘And the work?’

“‘Is purely nominal.’

“‘What do you call purely nominal?’

“‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the
whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The
will is very clear upon that point. You don’t comply with the
conditions if you budge from the office during that time.’

“‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,’ said
I.

“‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross; ‘neither sickness nor
business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your
billet.’

“‘And the work?’

“‘Is to copy out the //Encyclopædia Britannica//. There is the first
volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and
blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready
to-morrow?’

“‘Certainly,’ I answered.

“‘Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once
more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to
gain.’ He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my assistant,
hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good
fortune.

“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low
spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair
must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I
could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could
make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything
so simple as copying out the //Encyclopædia Britannica//. Vincent
Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had
reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I
determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of
ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I
started off for Pope’s Court.

“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible.
The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to
see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and
then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all
was right with me. At two o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented me
upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office
after me.

“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager
came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week’s work. It
was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I
was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr.
Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a
time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to
leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,
and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would
not risk the loss of it.

“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and
Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with
diligence that I might get on to the B’s before very long. It cost me
something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my
writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.”

“To an end?”

“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual
at ten o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square
of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here
it is, and you can read for yourself.”

He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of
note-paper. It read in this fashion:

~~~~~~~~~~~THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE\\
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~IS\\
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~DISSOLVED.\\
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~October 9, 1890.

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful
face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely
overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar
of laughter.

“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client,
flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. “If you can do nothing
better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.”

“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he
had half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is
most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying
so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you
take when you found the card upon the door?”

“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the
offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it.
Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the
ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of
the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such
body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the
name was new to him.

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4.’

“‘What, the red-headed man?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Oh,’ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and
was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises
were ready. He moved out yesterday.’

“‘Where could I find him?’

“‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King
Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’

“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a
manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of
either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”

“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.

“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that
if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough,
Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so,
as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk
who were in need of it, I came right away to you.”

“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an exceedingly
remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you
have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from
it than might at first sight appear.”

“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four pound a
week.”

“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I do not
see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On
the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £ 30, to say
nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject
which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”

“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what
their object was in playing this prank---if it was a prank---upon me. It
was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty
pounds.”

“We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one
or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called
your attention to the advertisement---how long had he been with you?”

“About a month then.”

“How did he come?”

“In answer to an advertisement.”

“Was he the only applicant?”

“No, I had a dozen.”

“Why did you pick him?”

“Because he was handy and would come cheap.”

“At half wages, in fact.”

“Yes.”

“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”

“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his
forehead.”

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I thought as
much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for
earrings?”

“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a
lad.”

“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with
you?”

“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”

“And has your business been attended to in your absence?”

“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of a
morning.”

“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon
the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I
hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”

“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what do you
make of it all?”

“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most mysterious
business.”

“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less
mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes
which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most
difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.”

“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.

“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg
that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in
his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and
there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out
like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that
he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly
sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his
mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked.
“What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few
hours?”

“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing.”

“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and
we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal
of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than
Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come
along!”

We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk
took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we
had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel
place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out
into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few
clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden
and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with
“JABEZ WILSON” in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the
place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock
Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it
all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he
walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still
looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s,
and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or
three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly
opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to
step in.

“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you would go
from here to the Strand.”

“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, closing
the door.

“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He is, in my
judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not
sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him
before.”

“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good deal in
this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your
way merely in order that you might see him.”

“Not him.”

“What then?”

“The knees of his trousers.”

“And what did you see?”

“What I expected to see.”

“Why did you beat the pavement?”

“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are
spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.
Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it.”

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from
the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as
the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main
arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west.
The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in
a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with
the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we
looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that
they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant
square which we had just quitted.

“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along
the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the houses here.
It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is
Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg
branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and
McFarlane’s carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the
other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s time we had
some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land,
where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no
red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very
capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the
afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness,
gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his
gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those
of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his
singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his
extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought,
the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which
occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from
extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never
so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in
his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions.
Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him,
and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of
intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would
look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other
mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St.
James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom
he had set himself to hunt down.

“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we emerged.

“Yes, it would be as well.”

“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This
business at Coburg Square is serious.”

“Why serious?”

“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday
rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night.”

“At what time?”

“Ten will be early enough.”

“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”

“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so
kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand,
turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always
oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock
Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had
seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not
only what had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the
whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my
house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story
of the red-headed copier of the //Encyclopædia// down to the visit to
Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from
me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed?
Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes
that this smooth-faced pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man---a
man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it
up in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an
explanation.

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way
across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two
hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard
the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in
animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter
Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin,
sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable
frock-coat.

“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket
and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson, I think you
know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr.
Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adventure.”

“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones in his
consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a
chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.”

“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,”
observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the
police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he
won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic,
but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say
that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the
Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official
force.”

“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger with
deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first
Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my
rubber.”

“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will play for
a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play
will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be
some £ 30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you
wish to lay your hands.”

“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a young man,
Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would
rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He’s a
remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke,
and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as
his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never
know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one
week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.
I’ve been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet.”

“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I’ve
had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with
you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however,
and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom,
Watson and I will follow in the second.”

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and
lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the
afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets
until we emerged into Farrington Street.

“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow Merryweather
is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought
it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though
an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He
is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his
claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us.”

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found
ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and
through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small
corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was
opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated
at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a
lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and
so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was
piled all round with crates and massive boxes.

“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as he held up
the lantern and gazed about him.

“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the
flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!” he
remarked, looking up in surprise.

“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes
severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our
expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down
upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very
injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon
the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine
minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to
satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his
pocket.

“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they can hardly
take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they
will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer
time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor---as no
doubt you have divined---in the cellar of the City branch of one of the
principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors,
and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring
criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar
at present.”

“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had several
warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.”

“Your French gold?”

“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and
borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It
has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money,
and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit
contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our
reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a
single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the
subject.”

“Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now it is time
that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters
will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the
screen over that dark lantern.”

“And sit in the dark?”

“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I
thought that, as we were a //partie carrée//, you might have your rubber
after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far
that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must
choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take
them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful.
I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind
those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they
fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.”

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind
which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern
and left us in pitch darkness---such an absolute darkness as I have never
before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that
the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s notice. To
me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was
something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold
dank air of the vault.

“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back through
the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I
asked you, Jones?”

“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”

“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and
wait.”

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an
hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have
almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and
stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up
to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I
could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could
distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the
thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look
over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught
the glint of a light.

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it
lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any
warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white,
almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area
of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers,
protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it
appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which
marked a chink between the stones.

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing
sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and
left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a
lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which
looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the
aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee
rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the
hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like
himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.

“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the bags?
Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar.
The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth
as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a
revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came down on the man’s wrist, and
the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.

“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no chance at
all.”

“So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I fancy that
my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails.”

“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.

“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must
compliment you.”

“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was very new and
effective.”

“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker at
climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies.”

“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” remarked our
prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You may not be
aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also,
when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please.’”

“All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would you
please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your
Highness to the police-station?”

“That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to
the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.

“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from
the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you.
There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most
complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery
that have ever come within my experience.”

“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John
Clay,” said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over this
matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am
amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique,
and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League.”

“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morning as we
sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly
obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather
fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying
of the //Encyclopædia//, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker
out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of
managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better.
The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious mind by the
colour of his accomplice’s hair. The £ 4 a week was a lure which must
draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They
put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other
rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to
secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I
heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me
that he had some strong motive for securing the situation.”

“But how could you guess what the motive was?”

“Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere
vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man’s
business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which
could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure
as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What
could it be? I thought of the assistant’s fondness for photography, and
his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end
of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious
assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most
daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the
cellar---something which took many hours a day for months on end. What
could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was
running a tunnel to some other building.

“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was
ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It
was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant
answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes
upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were
what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn,
wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of
burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I
walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our
friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you
drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the
chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.”

“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?” I
asked.

“Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they
cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence---in other words, that
they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should
use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be
removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it
would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I
expected them to come to-night.”

“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration.
“It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.”

“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I already feel
it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape
from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do
so.”

“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some
little use,” he remarked. “‘//L’homme c’est rien---l’œuvre c’est tout//,’
as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”
Omaha Sherlockian Society

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