The Red-headed League

: Egerton Castle

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, co
dially.



"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 finger tips 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 acknowledge 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 endeavored, 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 gray shepherd's check trousers, a

not overclean 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's 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 labor, 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 labor? 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 which you have tattooed immediately above your 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 ignotom 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, Pa., U.S.A., there is now another

vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of

four pounds 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 Saxe-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 employee 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 color 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

color. 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 of 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

color they were--straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish setter, liver, clay;

but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid

flame-colored 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 favorable 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 favor 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 shall

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 evenings, 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 four pounds 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 "Encyclopaedia 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-by, 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 'Encyclopaedia Britannica.' Vincent Spaulding did what he

could to cheer me up, but by bed time 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 Armor, and Architecture, and Attica, and hoped with diligence

that I might get on to the Bs 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 onto 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.

Oct. 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 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 thirty pounds, 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 endeavor 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 gypsy 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 hawklike 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 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 traveled 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 inclosure, 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

convey 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 realize, 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 Saxe-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 neighbors, 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 "Encyclopaedia" 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 recognized 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 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 thirty

thousand pounds; 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 gaslit streets until we emerged

into Farringdon 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 imperiled 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, thirty thousand 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 two thousand 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 carree, 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 yourself 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 inbreath 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 center 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's 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 'Encyclopaedia,' 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 color of his

accomplice's hair. The four pounds 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 clew. 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 that 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'oeuvre c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to

Georges Sands."



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