The Adventure Of The Blue Carbuncle

I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second

morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the

compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a

purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the

right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly

studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and

on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disr

hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several

places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair

suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the

purpose of examination.

"You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."

"Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss

my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one"--he jerked his

thumb in the direction of the old hat--"but there are points in

connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and

even of instruction."

I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his

crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows

were thick with the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that,

homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to

it--that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of

some mystery and the punishment of some crime."

"No, no. No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "Only one of

those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have

four million human beings all jostling each other within the

space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so

dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events

may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be

presented which may be striking and bizarre without being

criminal. We have already had experience of such."

"So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I

have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any

legal crime."

"Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler

papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the

adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt

that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category.

You know Peterson, the commissionaire?"


"It is to him that this trophy belongs."

"It is his hat."

"No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will

look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual

problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon

Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I

have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's

fire. The facts are these: about four o'clock on Christmas

morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was

returning from some small jollification and was making his way

homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in

the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and

carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the

corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger

and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the

man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and,

swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him.

Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his

assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and

seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him,

dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the

labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham

Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of

Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of

battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this

battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose."

"Which surely he restored to their owner?"

"My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For

Mrs. Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to

the bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H.

B.' are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are

some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in

this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any

one of them."

"What, then, did Peterson do?"

"He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning,

knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me.

The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs

that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it

should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried

it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose,

while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who

lost his Christmas dinner."

"Did he not advertise?"


"Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

"Only as much as we can deduce."

"From his hat?"


"But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered


"Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather

yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this


I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather

ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round

shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of

red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's

name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were

scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a

hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was

cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places,

although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the

discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

"I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail,

however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in

drawing your inferences."

"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"

He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective

fashion which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less

suggestive than it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there

are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others

which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That

the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the

face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the

last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He

had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a

moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his

fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink,

at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that

his wife has ceased to love him."

"My dear Holmes!"

"He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he

continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a

sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is

middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the

last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are

the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also,

by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid

on in his house."

"You are certainly joking, Holmes."

"Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you

these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

"I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I

am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that

this man was intellectual?"

For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right

over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is

a question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a

brain must have something in it."

"The decline of his fortunes, then?"

"This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge

came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the

band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could

afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no

hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world."

"Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the

foresight and the moral retrogression?"

Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he putting

his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer.

"They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a

sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his

way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see

that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace

it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly,

which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other

hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon the

felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not

entirely lost his self-respect."

"Your reasoning is certainly plausible."

"The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is

grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses

lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the

lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of

hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all

appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of

lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, grey

dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house,

showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while

the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the

wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in

the best of training."

"But his wife--you said that she had ceased to love him."

"This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear

Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and

when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear

that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's


"But he might be a bachelor."

"Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his

wife. Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

"You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce

that the gas is not laid on in his house?"

"One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I

see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt

that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with

burning tallow--walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in

one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never

got tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?"

"Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but since, as

you said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm

done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a

waste of energy."

Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew

open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment

with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with


"The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped.

"Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off

through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon

the sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face.

"See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!" He held out

his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly

scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but

of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric

point in the dark hollow of his hand.

Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove, Peterson!" said

he, "this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you

have got?"

"A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though

it were putty."

"It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone."

"Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I ejaculated.

"Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I

have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day

lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be

conjectured, but the reward offered of 1000 pounds is certainly

not within a twentieth part of the market price."

"A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire

plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

"That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are

sentimental considerations in the background which would induce

the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but

recover the gem."

"It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan," I


"Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner,

a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady's

jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case

has been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the

matter here, I believe." He rummaged amid his newspapers,

glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out,

doubled it over, and read the following paragraph:

"Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was

brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst.,

abstracted from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the

valuable gem known as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder,

upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the effect

that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room of the Countess

of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he might

solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had

remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been

called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared,

that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco

casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was

accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the

dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was

arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found

either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to

the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's cry of dismay on

discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room,

where she found matters as described by the last witness.

Inspector Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest

of Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence

in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for

robbery having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate

refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to

the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion

during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was

carried out of court."

"Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes thoughtfully,

tossing aside the paper. "The question for us now to solve is the

sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to

the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You

see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much

more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the

stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry

Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other

characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set

ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and

ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To

do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie

undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If

this fail, I shall have recourse to other methods."

"What will you say?"

"Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: 'Found at

the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr.

Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at

221B, Baker Street.' That is clear and concise."

"Very. But will he see it?"

"Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor

man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his

mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson

that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must

have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his

bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to

see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to

it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency

and have this put in the evening papers."

"In which, sir?"

"Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, Evening News,

Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you."

"Very well, sir. And this stone?"

"Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say,

Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here

with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place

of the one which your family is now devouring."

When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and

held it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just

see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and

focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet

baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a

bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found

in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable

in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is

blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has

already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a

vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about

for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal.

Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the

gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in my strong box now and

drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it."

"Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?"

"I cannot tell."

"Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had

anything to do with the matter?"

"It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an

absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he

was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made

of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple

test if we have an answer to our advertisement."

"And you can do nothing until then?"


"In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall

come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I

should like to see the solution of so tangled a business."

"Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I

believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I

ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."

I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past

six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I

approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a

coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the

bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I

arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up together to

Holmes' room.

"Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising from his armchair

and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he

could so readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr.

Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is

more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have

just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?"

"Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."

He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a

broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of

grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight

tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes' surmise as to his

habits. His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in

front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrists protruded

from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a

slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the

impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had

ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

"We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes,

"because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your

address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. "Shillings have not

been so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked. "I had

no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off

both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a

hopeless attempt at recovering them."

"Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to

eat it."

"To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair in his


"Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so.

But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is

about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your

purpose equally well?"

"Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of


"Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of

your own bird, so if you wish--"

The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be useful to me as

relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can hardly

see what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are

going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I

will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive

upon the sideboard."

Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug

of his shoulders.

"There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he. "By the

way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one

from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a

better grown goose."

"Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly

gained property under his arm. "There are a few of us who

frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum--we are to be found in

the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our

good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which,

on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to

receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the

rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a

Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity." With

a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and

strode off upon his way.

"So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed the

door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing

whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"

"Not particularly."

"Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow

up this clue while it is still hot."

"By all means."

It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped

cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly

in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out

into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out

crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors' quarter,

Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into

Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at

the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one

of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open

the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from

the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.

"Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese,"

said he.

"My geese!" The man seemed surprised.

"Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker,

who was a member of your goose club."

"Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese."

"Indeed! Whose, then?"

"Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden."

"Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?"

"Breckinridge is his name."

"Ah! I don't know him. Well, here's your good health landlord,

and prosperity to your house. Good-night."

"Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up his coat

as we came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson that though

we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we

have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal

servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible

that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we

have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police,

and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us

follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and

quick march!"

We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a

zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest

stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor

a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was

helping a boy to put up the shutters.

"Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.

The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my


"Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the

bare slabs of marble.

"Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

"That's no good."

"Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

"Ah, but I was recommended to you."

"Who by?"

"The landlord of the Alpha."

"Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

"Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?"

To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the


"Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms

akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."

"It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the

geese which you supplied to the Alpha."

"Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"

"Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you

should be so warm over such a trifle."

"Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am.

When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end

of the business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you

sell the geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One

would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the

fuss that is made over them."

"Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been

making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't tell us

the bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my

opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the

bird I ate is country bred."

"Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped

the salesman.

"It's nothing of the kind."

"I say it is."

"I don't believe it."

"D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled

them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that

went to the Alpha were town bred."

"You'll never persuade me to believe that."

"Will you bet, then?"

"It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But

I'll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be


The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said


The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great

greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging


"Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that I

was out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is

still one left in my shop. You see this little book?"


"That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you see? Well,

then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers

after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger.

Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a

list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just

read it out to me."

"Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road--249," read Holmes.

"Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger."

Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are, 'Mrs.

Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.'"

"Now, then, what's the last entry?"

"'December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.'"

"Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"

"'Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.'"

"What have you to say now?"

Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from

his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the

air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off

he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless

fashion which was peculiar to him.

"When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the 'Pink 'un'

protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet,"

said he. "I daresay that if I had put 100 pounds down in front of

him, that man would not have given me such complete information

as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a

wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our

quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is

whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or

whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear from what

that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves

who are anxious about the matter, and I should--"

His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke

out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a

little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of

yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while

Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was

shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.

"I've had enough of you and your geese," he shouted. "I wish you

were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more

with your silly talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs.

Oakshott here and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with

it? Did I buy the geese off you?"

"No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little


"Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."

"She told me to ask you."

"Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I've had

enough of it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and

the inquirer flitted away into the darkness.

"Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes.

"Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this

fellow." Striding through the scattered knots of people who

lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook

the little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang

round, and I could see in the gas-light that every vestige of

colour had been driven from his face.

"Who are you, then? What do you want?" he asked in a quavering


"You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could not help

overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now.

I think that I could be of assistance to you."

"You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other

people don't know."

"But you can know nothing of this?"

"Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to

trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton

Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr.

Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr.

Henry Baker is a member."

"Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried

the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers.

"I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter."

Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. "In that

case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this

wind-swept market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we

go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."

The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he

answered with a sidelong glance.

"No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always

awkward doing business with an alias."

A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well then,"

said he, "my real name is James Ryder."

"Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray

step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you

everything which you would wish to know."

The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with

half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure

whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe.

Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in

the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during

our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and

the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous

tension within him.

"Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room.

"The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold,

Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my

slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then!

You want to know what became of those geese?"

"Yes, sir."

"Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in

which you were interested--white, with a black bar across the


Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you tell

me where it went to?"

"It came here."


"Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that

you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was

dead--the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen.

I have it here in my museum."

Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece

with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up

the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold,

brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a

drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.

"The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or

you'll be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair,

Watson. He's not got blood enough to go in for felony with

impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little

more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!"

For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy

brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring

with frightened eyes at his accuser.

"I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I

could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me.

Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case

complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the

Countess of Morcar's?"

"It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," said he in a

crackling voice.

"I see--her ladyship's waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of

sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has

been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous

in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the

making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man

Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter

before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him.

What did you do, then? You made some small job in my lady's

room--you and your confederate Cusack--and you managed that he

should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled

the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man

arrested. You then--"

Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my

companion's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked.

"Think of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I

never went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I'll

swear it on a Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court! For Christ's

sake, don't!"

"Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is very well

to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this

poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."

"I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the

charge against him will break down."

"Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account

of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came

the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies

your only hope of safety."

Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you

it just as it happened, sir," said he. "When Horner had been

arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get

away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment

the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my

room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe.

I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister's

house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton

Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the way there

every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective;

and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down

my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me

what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I

had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went

into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would

be best to do.

"I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and

has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met

me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they

could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to

me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up my mind

to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my

confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money.

But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the agonies I had

gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any moment be

seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat

pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at

the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly

an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the

best detective that ever lived.

"My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the

pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she

was always as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in

it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in

the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds--a fine big

one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill

open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger

could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass

along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped

and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the

matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and

fluttered off among the others.

"'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.

"'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I

was feeling which was the fattest.'

"'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you--Jem's bird, we

call it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six

of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen

for the market.'

"'Thank you, Maggie,' says I; 'but if it is all the same to you,

I'd rather have that one I was handling just now.'

"'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, 'and we

fattened it expressly for you.'

"'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it now,' said I.

"'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 'Which is it

you want, then?'

"'That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the


"'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'

"Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird

all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was

a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed

until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My

heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I

knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird,

rushed back to my sister's, and hurried into the back yard. There

was not a bird to be seen there.

"'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.

"'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'

"'Which dealer's?'

"'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'

"'But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked, 'the same

as the one I chose?'

"'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never

tell them apart.'

"Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my

feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the

lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they

had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always

answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad.

Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now--and now I am myself

a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which

I sold my character. God help me! God help me!" He burst into

convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.

There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and

by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' finger-tips upon the

edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

"Get out!" said he.

"What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"

"No more words. Get out!"

And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon

the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running

footfalls from the street.

"After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his

clay pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their

deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing;

but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must

collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just

possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong

again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to gaol now, and

you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of

forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and

whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you

will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin

another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief