Books at bedtime.
The sign of the four, chapter two.
The statement of the case.
Miss Morsland entered the room with a firm step and an outward composure of manner.
She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well-gruned and dressed in the most perfect
taste.
There was, however, a plainness and simplicity about her costume, which bore with it a suggestion
of limited means.
The dress was a somber, grayish beige, untrimmed and unbrated, and she wore a small
turban of the same del hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white febber in the side.
Her face had neither regularity of future nor beauty of complexion, but her expression
was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly, the spiritually and sympathetic.
In an experience of women, which extends over many nations and three separate continents,
I have never looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive
nature.
I could not but observe that as she took the seat which sheerl at Holmes placed for her,
her lip trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward agitation.
"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled my employer, Mr.
Cessel Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication.
You was much impressed by your kindness and skill."
Mrs. Cessel Forrester, he repeated thoughtfully, "I believed that I was some slight service
to her.
The case, however, as I remember it, was a very simple one.
She did not think so, but at least you cannot say the same of mine.
I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly inexplicable than the situation.
In which I find myself."
Holmes rubbed his hands and his eyes glistened.
He leaned forward in his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his clear
cut, "Hort-clike features."
"State your case," he said, he, "an embrisk business tones."
I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.
You will, I am sure, excuse me, I said, rising for my chair.
To my surprise, the young lady held up a club to hand to detain me.
If your friend, she said, would be good enough to stop, he might be of an estimable service
to me.
I relapsed into my chair.
Briefly, she continued, "the facts of these.
My father was an officer in an Indian regiment who sent me home when I was quite a child.
My mother was dead and I had no relative in England.
I was placed, however, in a comfortable boarding establishment to Edinburgh, and there I remained
until I was 17 years of age."
In the year 1878, my father, who was a senior captain of his regiment, obtained twelve
months leave and came home.
He telegraphed to me from London, but he had arrived all safe and directed to me to come
down at once, giving me Langham Hotel as his address.
His message, as I remember, was full of kindness and love.
On reaching London, I drove to the Langham and was informed that Captain Maustin was staying
there.
But he had gone out for the night before and had not yet returned.
I waited all day without news of him.
That night, on the advice of the manager of the hotel, I communicated with the police.
And the next morning, we advertised in all the papers.
Our enquiries led to no result, and from that day to this no word has ever been heard of
my unfortunate father.
He came home with his heart full of hope, to find some peace, some comfort, and instead,
she put her hand to her throat, and choking a sob, cut short the sentence.
The date asked Holmes opening his notebook.
He disappeared upon the third of December 1878, nearly ten years ago.
His luggage remained at the hotel.
There was nothing in it to suggest a clue, some clothes, some books, and a considerable
number of curiosities from the Andaman Islands.
Yet been one of the officers in charge of the convict guard here.
Had he any friends in town?
Only one that we know of, Major Shulton of his own regiment, the 34th Bombay Infantry.
The Major had retired some little time before and lived it up and forward.
We communicated with him, of course, but he did not even know that his brother officer
was in England.
A singular case remarked Holmes.
I have not yet described to you the most singular part.
About six years ago, to be exact, upon the 4th of May 1882, an advertisement appeared
in the Times, asking for the address of Miss Mary Morston, and stating that would be to
her advantage to come forward.
There was no name or address appended.
I had at that time just entered the family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of
Governors.
By her advice, I published my address in the advertisement column.
The same day, they arrived through the post a small cardboard box addressed to me, which
I found to contain a very large and mysterious pearl.
No word of writing was enclosed.
Since then, every year, upon the same date that has always appeared a similar box, containing
a similar pearl, without any clue as to the sender.
They have been pronounced by an expert to be of a very rare variety and of a considerable
value.
You can see for yourselves that they are very handsome.
She opened a flat box as she spoke and showed me six of the finest pearls that I'd ever
seen.
"Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes, "has anything else occurred to
you?"
"Yes."
"And no later than today."
"That is why I've come to you."
This morning, I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for yourself.
Thank you, said Holmes.
The envelope, too, please, postmarked London's southwest date July 7th.
Hmm, a man's thumb mark on the corner.
Probably the postman.
This quality paper envelopes at six-pence-a-packet, a particular man in his stationery.
No address.
"Be, at the third pillar, from the left, outside the Lyceum's theater, tonight at seven o'clock.
If you are distrustful, bring two friends.
You are a wronged woman and I shall have justice.
Do not bring police.
If you do, all will be in vain.
Your unknown friend."
"Well, really.
This is a very pretty little mystery.
What do you intend to do, Mrs. Morston?"
"That is exactly what I want you to ask.
Then we shall most certainly go.
You and I, and yes, why?"
"Dr. Watson, is the very man.
Your correspondence says two friends.
He and I have worked together before.
"But would he come?" she asked, with something appealing in her voice of expression.
"I should be proud and happy," said I fervently, "if I can be of any service."
"You are both very kind," she answered.
"I have led a retired life and I have no friends whom I could appeal to.
If I am here at six, it will do, I suppose."
"You must not be later," said Holmes.
There is one other point, however, in this handwriting.
The same as upon the Pearl Box addresses.
"I have them here," she answered, "producing half a dozen pieces of paper."
"You are certainly a model client.
You have the correct intuition."
Let us see now.
He spread out the papers upon the table and gave little darting glances from one to the
other.
"They are disguised hands except the letter," he said pleasantly.
But there can be no questioners to the authorship.
Any how the irrepressible Greek E will break out and see the twirl of the final S. They are
undoubtedly by the same person.
I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss Mauston, but is there any semblance between
this hand and that of your father?
Nothing could be more unalike.
I had expected to hear you say so.
We shall look out for you then, at six.
Pray allow me to keep the papers.
I may look into the matter before then.
It is only half past three.
"Aruvoire then."
"Aruvoire," said our visitor.
And with a bright kindly glance from one to the other of us, she replaced her Pearl Box
in her bosom and hurried away.
Standing at the window.
I watched her walking briskly down the street until the great urban and white beather were
but a speck in the somber crowd.
What a very attractive woman I exclaimed turning to my companion.
He had lit his pipe again and was leaning back with grouping eyelids.
"Is she?" he said languidly.
"I did not observe."
"You really are an automaton, a calculating machine I cried.
There is something positively inhuman in you at times."
He smiled gently.
It of the first importance he said not to allow your judgement to be biased by personal qualities.
A client is to me, a me-unit, a factor in a problem.
The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning.
I assure you that the most winning women ever I knew was hanged for poisoning three little
children for their insurance money and the most repellent man of my acquaintances is a philanthropist
who has spent nearly a quarter a million upon the London Paul.
In this case, however, I never make exceptions and exception disproves the rule.
Have you ever had occasions to study character in handwriting?
What you make of this vellows' grivel?
It is legible and regular, I answered.
A man of business habits and some force of character.
Holmes shook his head.
"Look at his long letter," he said.
"They hardly rise above the common herd.
The D might be an A, and that I an E."
Men of character always differentiate their long letters.
However, elitably they may write.
There is vacillation in this case and self-esteem in his capitals.
I'm going out now.
I have some few references to make.
Let me recommend this book, one of the most remarkable ever penned.
It is win-wids reads, "Marted him of man.
I shall be back in an hour."
I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were far from the daring
speculations of the writer.
My mind ran upon our late visitor.
Her smiles, the deep-rich tones of her voice, the strange mastery which overhung her life.
If she was 17 at the time of her father's disappearance, she must be 7 and 20 now.
A sweet age.
When youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience.
So I sat and used until such dangerous thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my
desk and plunged furiously into the latest treaties upon pathology.
What was I?
An army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking account that I should dare to think of such
things.
She was a unit of factor, nothing more.
If my future were black, if it was better surely to face it like a man, then to attempt to
brighten it by mere will of the wisps of the imagination.
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