"All this seems strange to you," continued Holmes, "because you failedat the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the singlereal clue which was presented to you. I had the good fortune to seizeupon that, and everything which has occurred since then has served toconfirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the logical sequenceof it. Hence things which have perplexed you and made the case moreobscure, have served to enlighten me and to strengthen my conclusions.It is a mistake to confound strangeness with mystery. The mostcommonplace crime is often the most mysterious because it presents nonew or special features from which deductions may be drawn. This murderwould have been infinitely more difficult to unravel had the body ofthe victim been simply found lying in the roadway without any ofthose _outre_ and sensational accompaniments which have renderedit remarkable. These strange details, far from making the case moredifficult, have really had the effect of making it less so."
Mr. Gregson, who had listened to this address with considerableimpatience, could contain himself no longer. "Look here, Mr. SherlockHolmes," he said, "we are all ready to acknowledge that you are a smartman, and that you have your own methods of working. We want somethingmore than mere theory and preaching now, though. It is a case of takingthe man. I have made my case out, and it seems I was wrong. YoungCharpentier could not have been engaged in this second affair. Lestradewent after his man, Stangerson, and it appears that he was wrong too.You have thrown out hints here, and hints there, and seem to know morethan we do, but the time has come when we feel that we have a right toask you straight how much you do know of the business. Can you name theman who did it?"
"I cannot help feeling that Gregson is right, sir," remarked Lestrade."We have both tried, and we have both failed. You have remarked morethan once since I have been in the room that you had all the evidencewhich you require. Surely you will not withhold it any longer."
"Any delay in arresting the assassin," I observed, "might give him timeto perpetrate some fresh atrocity."
Thus pressed by us all, Holmes showed signs of irresolution. Hecontinued to walk up and down the room with his head sunk on his chestand his brows drawn down, as was his habit when lost in thought.
"There will be no more murders," he said at last, stopping abruptly andfacing us. "You can put that consideration out of the question. You haveasked me if I know the name of the assassin. I do. The mere knowing ofhis name is a small thing, however, compared with the power of layingour hands upon him. This I expect very shortly to do. I have good hopesof managing it through my own arrangements; but it is a thing whichneeds delicate handling, for we have a shrewd and desperate man to dealwith, who is supported, as I have had occasion to prove, by another whois as clever as himself. As long as this man has no idea that anyonecan have a clue there is some chance of securing him; but if he had theslightest suspicion, he would change his name, and vanish in an instantamong the four million inhabitants of this great city. Without meaningto hurt either of your feelings, I am bound to say that I consider thesemen to be more than a match for the official force, and that is why Ihave not asked your assistance. If I fail I shall, of course, incur allthe blame due to this omission; but that I am prepared for. At presentI am ready to promise that the instant that I can communicate with youwithout endangering my own combinations, I shall do so."
Gregson and Lestrade seemed to be far from satisfied by this assurance,or by the depreciating allusion to the detective police. The former hadflushed up to the roots of his flaxen hair, while the other's beady eyesglistened with curiosity and resentment. Neither of them had time tospeak, however, before there was a tap at the door, and the spokesmanof the street Arabs, young Wiggins, introduced his insignificant andunsavoury person.
"Please, sir," he said, touching his forelock, "I have the cabdownstairs."
"Good boy," said Holmes, blandly. "Why don't you introduce this patternat Scotland Yard?" he continued, taking a pair of steel handcuffs froma drawer. "See how beautifully the spring works. They fasten in aninstant."
"The old pattern is good enough," remarked Lestrade, "if we can onlyfind the man to put them on."
"Very good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cabman may as wellhelp me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins."
I was surprised to find my companion speaking as though he were aboutto set out on a journey, since he had not said anything to me about it.There was a small portmanteau in the room, and this he pulled out andbegan to strap. He was busily engaged at it when the cabman entered theroom.
"Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said, kneeling overhis task, and never turning his head.
The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and putdown his hands to assist. At that instant there was a sharp click, thejangling of metal, and Sherlock Holmes sprang to his feet again.
"Gentlemen," he cried, with flashing eyes, "let me introduce you to Mr.Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and of Joseph Stangerson."
The whole thing occurred in a moment--so quickly that I had no timeto realize it. I have a vivid recollection of that instant, of Holmes'triumphant expression and the ring of his voice, of the cabman'sdazed, savage face, as he glared at the glittering handcuffs, which hadappeared as if by magic upon his wrists. For a second or two we mighthave been a group of statues. Then, with an inarticulate roar of fury,the prisoner wrenched himself free from Holmes's grasp, and hurledhimself th
rough the window. Woodwork and glass gave way before him; butbefore he got quite through, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes sprang uponhim like so many staghounds. He was dragged back into the room, and thencommenced a terrific conflict. So powerful and so fierce was he, thatthe four of us were shaken off again and again. He appeared to have theconvulsive strength of a man in an epileptic fit. His face and handswere terribly mangled by his passage through the glass, but loss ofblood had no effect in diminishing his resistance. It was not untilLestrade succeeded in getting his hand inside his neckcloth andhalf-strangling him that we made him realize that his struggles were ofno avail; and even then we felt no security until we had pinioned hisfeet as well as his hands. That done, we rose to our feet breathless andpanting.
"We have his cab," said Sherlock Holmes. "It will serve to take him toScotland Yard. And now, gentlemen," he continued, with a pleasant smile,"we have reached the end of our little mystery. You are very welcome toput any questions that you like to me now, and there is no danger that Iwill refuse to answer them."
PART II. _The Country of the Saints._
CHAPTER I. ON THE GREAT ALKALI PLAIN.
IN the central portion of the great North American Continent there liesan arid and repulsive desert, which for many a long year served as abarrier against the advance of civilisation. From the Sierra Nevada toNebraska, and from the Yellowstone River in the north to the Coloradoupon the south, is a region of desolation and silence. Nor is Naturealways in one mood throughout this grim district. It comprisessnow-capped and lofty mountains, and dark and gloomy valleys. There areswift-flowing rivers which dash through jagged canons; and there areenormous plains, which in winter are white with snow, and in summer aregrey with the saline alkali dust. They all preserve, however, the commoncharacteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.
There are no inhabitants of this land of despair. A band of Pawneesor of Blackfeet may occasionally traverse it in order to reach otherhunting-grounds, but the hardiest of the braves are glad to lose sightof those awesome plains, and to find themselves once more upon theirprairies. The coyote skulks among the scrub, the buzzard flaps heavilythrough the air, and the clumsy grizzly bear lumbers through the darkravines, and picks up such sustenance as it can amongst the rocks. Theseare the sole dwellers in the wilderness.
In the whole world there can be no more dreary view than that fromthe northern slope of the Sierra Blanco. As far as the eye can reachstretches the great flat plain-land, all dusted over with patches ofalkali, and intersected by clumps of the dwarfish chaparral bushes. Onthe extreme verge of the horizon lie a long chain of mountain peaks,with their rugged summits flecked with snow. In this great stretch ofcountry there is no sign of life, nor of anything appertaining to life.There is no bird in the steel-blue heaven, no movement upon the dull,grey earth--above all, there is absolute silence. Listen as one may,there is no shadow of a sound in all that mighty wilderness; nothing butsilence--complete and heart-subduing silence.
It has been said there is nothing appertaining to life upon the broadplain. That is hardly true. Looking down from the Sierra Blanco, onesees a pathway traced out across the desert, which winds away and islost in the extreme distance. It is rutted with wheels and trodden downby the feet of many adventurers. Here and there there are scatteredwhite objects which glisten in the sun, and stand out against the dulldeposit of alkali. Approach, and examine them! They are bones: somelarge and coarse, others smaller and more delicate. The former havebelonged to oxen, and the latter to men. For fifteen hundred miles onemay trace this ghastly caravan route by these scattered remains of thosewho had fallen by the wayside.
Looking down on this very scene, there stood upon the fourth of May,eighteen hundred and forty-seven, a solitary traveller. His appearancewas such that he might have been the very genius or demon of the region.An observer would have found it difficult to say whether he was nearerto forty or to sixty. His face was lean and haggard, and the brownparchment-like skin was drawn tightly over the projecting bones; hislong, brown hair and beard were all flecked and dashed with white; hiseyes were sunken in his head, and burned with an unnatural lustre; whilethe hand which grasped his rifle was hardly more fleshy than that of askeleton. As he stood, he leaned upon his weapon for support, and yethis tall figure and the massive framework of his bones suggested a wiryand vigorous constitution. His gaunt face, however, and his clothes,which hung so baggily over his shrivelled limbs, proclaimed what itwas that gave him that senile and decrepit appearance. The man wasdying--dying from hunger and from thirst.
He had toiled painfully down the ravine, and on to this littleelevation, in the vain hope of seeing some signs of water. Now the greatsalt plain stretched before his eyes, and the distant belt of savagemountains, without a sign anywhere of plant or tree, which mightindicate the presence of moisture. In all that broad landscape therewas no gleam of hope. North, and east, and west he looked with wildquestioning eyes, and then he realised that his wanderings had come toan end, and that there, on that barren crag, he was about to die. "Whynot here, as well as in a feather bed, twenty years hence," he muttered,as he seated himself in the shelter of a boulder.
Before sitting down, he had deposited upon the ground his useless rifle,and also a large bundle tied up in a grey shawl, which he had carriedslung over his right shoulder. It appeared to be somewhat too heavy forhis strength, for in lowering it, it came down on the ground with somelittle violence. Instantly there broke from the grey parcel a littlemoaning cry, and from it there protruded a small, scared face, with verybright brown eyes, and two little speckled, dimpled fists.
"You've hurt me!" said a childish voice reproachfully.
"Have I though," the man answered penitently, "I didn't go for to doit." As he spoke he unwrapped the grey shawl and extricated a prettylittle girl of about five years of age, whose dainty shoes and smartpink frock with its little linen apron all bespoke a mother's care. Thechild was pale and wan, but her healthy arms and legs showed that shehad suffered less than her companion.
"How is it now?" he answered anxiously, for she was still rubbing thetowsy golden curls which covered the back of her head.