"No, I think that I'll take it."
"Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down apassage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, andbrought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on eachside.
"The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here itis!" He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the doorand glanced through.
"He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."
We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with hisface towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly andheavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became hiscalling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in histattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremelydirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal itsrepulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran rightacross it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned upone side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in aperpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low overhis eyes and forehead.
"He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.
"He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an idea thathe might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me."He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to myastonishment, a very large bath-sponge.
"He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.
"Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door veryquietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectablefigure."
"Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He doesn'tlook a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He slipped hiskey into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. Thesleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deepslumber. Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge,and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down theprisoner's face.
"Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair, ofLee, in the county of Kent."
Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeledoff under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was thecoarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which hadseamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given therepulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangledred hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale,sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned,rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment.Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream andthrew himself down with his face to the pillow.
"Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missingman. I know him from the photograph."
The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandonshimself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray what am Icharged with?"
"With making away with Mr. Neville St.-- Oh, come, you can't becharged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide ofit," said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have beentwenty-seven years in the
force, but this really takes the cake."
"If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crimehas been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegallydetained."
"No crime, but a very great error has been committed," saidHolmes. "You would have done better to have trusted your wife."
"It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the prisoner."God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. MyGod! What an exposure! What can I do?"
Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted himkindly on the shoulder.
"If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," saidhe, "of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand,if you convince the police authorities that there is no possiblecase against you, I do not know that there is any reason that thedetails should find their way into the papers. InspectorBradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which youmight tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The casewould then never go into court at all."
"God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would haveendured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have leftmy miserable secret as a family blot to my children.
"You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was aschoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellenteducation. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, andfinally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One daymy editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in themetropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the pointfrom which all my adventures started. It was only by tryingbegging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which tobase my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all thesecrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room formy skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted myface, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a goodscar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of asmall slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head ofhair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the businesspart of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as abeggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returnedhome in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received noless than 26s. 4d.
"I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until,some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writserved upon me for 25 pounds. I was at my wit's end where to getthe money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight'sgrace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers,and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. Inten days I had the money and had paid the debt.
"Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduouswork at 2 pounds a week when I knew that I could earn as much ina day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap onthe ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between mypride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw upreporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had firstchosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pocketswith coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of alow den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I couldevery morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the eveningstransform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow,a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew thatmy secret was safe in his possession.
"Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums ofmoney. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of Londoncould earn 700 pounds a year--which is less than my averagetakings--but I had exceptional advantages in my power of makingup, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved bypractice and made me quite a recognised character in the City.All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me,and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take 2 pounds.
"As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in thecountry, and eventually married, without anyone having asuspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I hadbusiness in the City. She little knew what.
"Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in myroom above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw,to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in thestreet, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry ofsurprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to myconfidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone fromcoming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew thatshe could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled onthose of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife'seyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then itoccurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and thatthe clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopeningby my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself inthe bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which wasweighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it fromthe leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out ofthe window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clotheswould have followed, but at that moment there was a rush ofconstables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather,I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr.Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.
"I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. Iwas determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, andhence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife wouldbe terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to theLascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, togetherwith a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause tofear."
"That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.