The Five Orange Pips





When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes

cases between the years '82 and '90, I am faced by so many which

present strange and interesting features that it is no easy

matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however,

have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have

not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend

possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of

these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his

analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without

an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and

have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and

surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to

him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable

in its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted

to give some account of it in spite of the fact that there are

points in connection with it which never have been, and probably

never will be, entirely cleared up.



The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater

or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my

headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the

adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant

Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a

furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the

British barque "Sophy Anderson", of the singular adventures of the

Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the

Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered,

Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man's watch, to

prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that

therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time--a

deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the

case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of

them present such singular features as the strange train of

circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.



It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales

had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had

screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that

even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced

to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and

to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which

shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like

untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew

higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in

the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the

fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the

other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine sea-stories until

the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text,

and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of

the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's, and for a

few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker

Street.



"Why," said I, glancing up at my companion, "that was surely the

bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?"



"Except yourself I have none," he answered. "I do not encourage

visitors."



"A client, then?"



"If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out

on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more

likely to be some crony of the landlady's."



Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there

came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He

stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and

towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit.



"Come in!" said he.



The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the

outside, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of

refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella

which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told

of the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about

him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his

face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is

weighed down with some great anxiety.



"I owe you an apology," he said, raising his golden pince-nez to

his eyes. "I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have

brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug

chamber."



"Give me your coat and umbrella," said Holmes. "They may rest

here on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from

the south-west, I see."



"Yes, from Horsham."



"That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is

quite distinctive."



"I have come for advice."



"That is easily got."



"And help."



"That is not always so easy."



"I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast

how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal."



"Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards."



"He said that you could solve anything."



"He said too much."



"That you are never beaten."



"I have been beaten four times--three times by men, and once by a

woman."



"But what is that compared with the number of your successes?"



"It is true that I have been generally successful."



"Then you may be so with me."



"I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me

with some details as to your case."



"It is no ordinary one."



"None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of

appeal."



"And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you

have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of

events than those which have happened in my own family."



"You fill me with interest," said Holmes. "Pray give us the

essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards

question you as to those details which seem to me to be most

important."



The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out

towards the blaze.



"My name," said he, "is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have,

as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful

business. It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an

idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the

affair.



"You must know that my grandfather had two sons--my uncle Elias

and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry,

which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He

was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business

met with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire

upon a handsome competence.



"My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and

became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done

very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army,

and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When

Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where

he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came

back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham.

He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his

reason for leaving them was his aversion to the negroes, and his

dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to

them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very

foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring

disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I

doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or

three fields round his house, and there he would take his

exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave

his room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very

heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any

friends, not even his own brother.



"He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the

time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This

would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years

in England. He begged my father to let me live with him and he

was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be

fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me, and he would

make me his representative both with the servants and with the

tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite

master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I

liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in

his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he

had a single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was

invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or

anyone else to enter. With a boy's curiosity I have peeped

through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a

collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such

a room.



"One day--it was in March, 1883--a letter with a foreign stamp

lay upon the table in front of the colonel's plate. It was not a

common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all

paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. 'From

India!' said he as he took it up, 'Pondicherry postmark! What can

this be?' Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little

dried orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to

laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight

of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his

skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he

still held in his trembling hand, 'K. K. K.!' he shrieked, and

then, 'My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!'



"'What is it, uncle?' I cried.



"'Death,' said he, and rising from the table he retired to his

room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope

and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the

gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else

save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his

overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as I

ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key,

which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and a small

brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.



"'They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still,'

said he with an oath. 'Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my

room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.'



"I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to

step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the

grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned

paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I

glanced at the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was

printed the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the

envelope.



"'I wish you, John,' said my uncle, 'to witness my will. I leave

my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to

my brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to

you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you

cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest

enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can't

say what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper

where Mr. Fordham shows you.'



"I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with

him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest

impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every

way in my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I

could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left

behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed

and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I

could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever,

and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his

time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the

inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy

and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a

revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man,

and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by

man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would

rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him,

like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror

which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen

his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it

were new raised from a basin.



"Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to

abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those

drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when

we went to search for him, face downward in a little

green-scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the garden. There

was no sign of any violence, and the water was but two feet deep,

so that the jury, having regard to his known eccentricity,

brought in a verdict of 'suicide.' But I, who knew how he winced

from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade myself

that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed,

however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and

of some 14,000 pounds, which lay to his credit at the bank."



"One moment," Holmes interposed, "your statement is, I foresee,

one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me

have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and

the date of his supposed suicide."



"The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks

later, upon the night of May 2nd."



"Thank you. Pray proceed."



"When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my

request, made a careful examination of the attic, which had been

always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its

contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a

paper label, with the initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and

'Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register' written beneath.

These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had

been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was

nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many

scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle's life in

America. Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had

done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier.

Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern

states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had

evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag

politicians who had been sent down from the North.



"Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my father came to live at

Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the

January of '85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my

father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the

breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened

envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the

outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what

he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked

very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon

himself.



"'Why, what on earth does this mean, John?' he stammered.



"My heart had turned to lead. 'It is K. K. K.,' said I.



"He looked inside the envelope. 'So it is,' he cried. 'Here are

the very letters. But what is this written above them?'



"'Put the papers on the sundial,' I read, peeping over his

shoulder.



"'What papers? What sundial?' he asked.



"'The sundial in the garden. There is no other,' said I; 'but the

papers must be those that are destroyed.'



"'Pooh!' said he, gripping hard at his courage. 'We are in a

civilised land here, and we can't have tomfoolery of this kind.

Where does the thing come from?'



"'From Dundee,' I answered, glancing at the postmark.



"'Some preposterous practical joke,' said he. 'What have I to do

with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such

nonsense.'



"'I should certainly speak to the police,' I said.



"'And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.'



"'Then let me do so?'



"'No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such

nonsense.'



"It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate

man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of

forebodings.



"On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went

from home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is

in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad

that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from

danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in

error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram

from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had

fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the

neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I

hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered

his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from

Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him,

and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in

bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental causes.'

Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I

was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of

murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no

robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads.

And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease,

and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been

woven round him.



"In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me

why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well

convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an

incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as

pressing in one house as in another.



"It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two

years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time

I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that

this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended

with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon,

however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in

which it had come upon my father."



The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and

turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried

orange pips.



"This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is

London--eastern division. Within are the very words which were

upon my father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the

papers on the sundial.'"



"What have you done?" asked Holmes.



"Nothing."



"Nothing?"



"To tell the truth"--he sank his face into his thin, white

hands--"I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor

rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in

the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight

and no precautions can guard against."



"Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man, or you are

lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for

despair."



"I have seen the police."



"Ah!"



"But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that

the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all

practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really

accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with

the warnings."



Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible

imbecility!" he cried.



"They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in

the house with me."



"Has he come with you to-night?"



"No. His orders were to stay in the house."



Again Holmes raved in the air.



"Why did you come to me," he cried, "and, above all, why did you

not come at once?"



"I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major

Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to

you."



"It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have

acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than

that which you have placed before us--no suggestive detail which

might help us?"



"There is one thing," said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat

pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted

paper, he laid it out upon the table. "I have some remembrance,"

said he, "that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I

observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the

ashes were of this particular colour. I found this single sheet

upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it

may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from

among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond

the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think

myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is

undoubtedly my uncle's."



Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper,

which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from

a book. It was headed, "March, 1869," and beneath were the

following enigmatical notices:



"4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.



"7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and

John Swain, of St. Augustine.



"9th. McCauley cleared.



"10th. John Swain cleared.



"12th. Visited Paramore. All well."



"Thank you!" said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it

to our visitor. "And now you must on no account lose another

instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told

me. You must get home instantly and act."



"What shall I do?"



"There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must

put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass

box which you have described. You must also put in a note to say

that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that

this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in such

words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this, you

must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed. Do

you understand?"



"Entirely."



"Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I

think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our

web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first

consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens

you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the

guilty parties."



"I thank you," said the young man, rising and pulling on his

overcoat. "You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall

certainly do as you advise."



"Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in

the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that

you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you

go back?"



"By train from Waterloo."



"It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that

you may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too

closely."



"I am armed."



"That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case."



"I shall see you at Horsham, then?"



"No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek

it."



"Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news

as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every

particular." He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside

the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered

against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come

to us from amid the mad elements--blown in upon us like a sheet

of sea-weed in a gale--and now to have been reabsorbed by them

once more.



Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk

forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he

lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue

smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.



"I think, Watson," he remarked at last, "that of all our cases we

have had none more fantastic than this."



"Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four."



"Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems

to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the

Sholtos."



"But have you," I asked, "formed any definite conception as to

what these perils are?"



"There can be no question as to their nature," he answered.



"Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue

this unhappy family?"



Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the

arms of his chair, with his finger-tips together. "The ideal

reasoner," he remarked, "would, when he had once been shown a

single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the

chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which

would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole

animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who

has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents

should be able to accurately state all the other ones, both

before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the

reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study

which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the

aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest

pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to

utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this

in itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all

knowledge, which, even in these days of free education and



encyclopaedias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so

impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge

which is likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have

endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you on one

occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits

in a very precise fashion."



"Yes," I answered, laughing. "It was a singular document.

Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I

remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the

mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry

eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and crime

records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and

self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the

main points of my analysis."



Holmes grinned at the last item. "Well," he said, "I say now, as

I said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic

stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the

rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he

can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which

has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster

all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the

'American Encyclopaedia' which stands upon the shelf beside you.

Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see what may be

deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong

presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for

leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their

habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for

the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love

of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of

someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis

that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from

America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by

considering the formidable letters which were received by himself

and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those

letters?"



"The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the

third from London."



"From East London. What do you deduce from that?"



"They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship."



"Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that

the probability--the strong probability--is that the writer was

on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the

case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and

its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days.

Does that suggest anything?"



"A greater distance to travel."



"But the letter had also a greater distance to come."



"Then I do not see the point."



"There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man

or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send

their singular warning or token before them when starting upon

their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign

when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a

steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter.

But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those

seven weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which

brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the

writer."



"It is possible."



"More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly

urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to

caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which

it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one

comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay."



"Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless

persecution?"



"The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital

importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think

that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them.

A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way

as to deceive a coroner's jury. There must have been several in

it, and they must have been men of resource and determination.

Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may.

In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an

individual and becomes the badge of a society."



"But of what society?"



"Have you never--" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and

sinking his voice--"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?"



"I never have."



Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. "Here it

is," said he presently:



"'Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to

the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret

society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the

Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local

branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee,

Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was

used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of

the negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country

of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually

preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic

but generally recognised shape--a sprig of oak-leaves in some

parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this

the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might

fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would

unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and

unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the

society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a

case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with

impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the

perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite

of the efforts of the United States government and of the better

classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year

1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have

been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.'



"You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that

the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the

disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may

well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his

family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track.

You can understand that this register and diary may implicate

some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many

who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered."



"Then the page we have seen--"



"Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, 'sent

the pips to A, B, and C'--that is, sent the society's warning to

them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or

left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a

sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let

some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only

chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have

told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done

to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for

half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable

ways of our fellow-men."





It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a

subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the

great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came

down.



"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I

foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of

young Openshaw's."



"What steps will you take?" I asked.



"It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries.

I may have to go down to Horsham, after all."



"You will not go there first?"



"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the

maid will bring up your coffee."



As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and

glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a

chill to my heart.



"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."



"Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How was it

done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.



"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy

Near Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:



"Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H

Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and

a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and

stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it

was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was

given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was

eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman

whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his

pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham.

It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch

the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and

the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge

of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body

exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that

the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident,

which should have the effect of calling the attention of the

authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages."



We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and

shaken than I had ever seen him.



"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a petty

feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal

matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my

hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that

I should send him away to his death--!" He sprang from his chair

and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a

flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and

unclasping of his long thin hands.



"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How could

they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the

direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too

crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson,

we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!"



"To the police?"



"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may

take the flies, but not before."



All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in

the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes

had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he

entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard,

and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously,

washing it down with a long draught of water.



"You are hungry," I remarked.



"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since

breakfast."



"Nothing?"



"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."



"And how have you succeeded?"



"Well."



"You have a clue?"



"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not

long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish

trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"



"What do you mean?"



He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he

squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and

thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote

"S. H. for J. O." Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain

James Calhoun, Barque 'Lone Star,' Savannah, Georgia."



"That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling.

"It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a

precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him."



"And who is this Captain Calhoun?"



"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first."



"How did you trace it, then?"



He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with

dates and names.



"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers

and files of the old papers, following the future career of every

vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in

'83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were

reported there during those months. Of these, one, the 'Lone Star,'

instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported

as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to

one of the states of the Union."



"Texas, I think."



"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must

have an American origin."



"What then?"



"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque

'Lone Star' was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a

certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present

in the port of London."



"Yes?"



"The 'Lone Star' had arrived here last week. I went down to the

Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by

the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired

to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and

as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the

Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight."



"What will you do, then?"



"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I

learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are

Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away

from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has

been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship

reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and

the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these

three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder."



There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans,

and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the

orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as

resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very

severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for

news of the "Lone Star" of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We

did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a

shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough

of a wave, with the letters "L. S." carved upon it, and that is

all which we shall ever know of the fate of the "Lone Star."





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