


                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                      1891                                  
                                                                            
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES                             
                                                                            
                               A CASE OF IDENTITY                           
                                                                            
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle                        
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
       
                                                                            
                                                          
                                                                           
  "My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of        
the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely stranger      
than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to      
conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence.        
If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great      
city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which        
are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the                  
cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through             
generations, and leading to the most outre results, it would make           
all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most        
stale and unprofitable."                                                    
  "And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which          
come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar         
enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme         
limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither                
fascinating nor artistic."                                                  
  "A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a           
realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the police          
report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the      
magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the          
vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so      
unnatural as the commonplace."                                              
  I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking         
so," I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and         
helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three             
continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and         
bizarre. But here"-I picked up the morning paper from the                   
ground-"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading        
upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his wife.' There is half         
a column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all             
perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the         
drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or            
landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude."          
  "Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument," said      
Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This is the         
Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in                
clearing up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a      
teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of         
was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by          
taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you         
will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the      
average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge        
that I have scored over you in your example."                               
  He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the        
centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely         
ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.              
                                                              
  "Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks.          
It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my           
assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."                          
  "And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which         
sparkled upon his finger.                                                   
  "It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in         
which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even      
to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my little      
problems."                                                                  
  "And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.               
  "Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest.      
They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed,      
I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a      
field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and          
effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes         
are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the more                
obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather      
intricate matter which has been referred to me from Marseilles,             
there is nothing which presents any features of interest. It is             
possible, however, that I may have something better before very many        
minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much               
mistaken."                                                                  
                                                             
  He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted           
blinds, gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street.             
Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there        
stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large        
curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a            
coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this      
great panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our         
windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her            
fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as        
of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and        
we heard the sharp clang of the bell.                                       
  "I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his            
cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always means        
an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure that the        
matter is not too delicate for communication. And Yet even here we may      
discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she          
no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire.          
Here we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden        
is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in        
person to resolve our doubts."                                              
  As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons           
entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself            
loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man        
behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy        
courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door           
and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and        
yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.                           
  "Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a           
little trying to do so much typewriting?"                                   
  "I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters         
are without looking." Then, suddenly realizing the full purport of his      
words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and                
astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. "You've heard about        
me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know all that?"             
                                                             
  "Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know           
things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook.          
If not, why should you come to consult me?"                                 
  "I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege,           
whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given      
him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me.        
I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right,            
besides the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all      
to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."                               
  "Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked              
Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the          
ceiling.                                                                    
  Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss         
Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she said, "for it      
made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank-that is, my        
father-took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would not go      
to you, and so at last as he would do nothing and kept on saying            
that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my          
things and came right away to you."                                         
  "Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since the name      
is different."                                                              
                                                             
  "Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too,      
for he is only five years and two months older than myself."                
  "And your mother is alive?"                                               
  "Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr.            
Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and a man      
who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a             
plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business            
behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but        
when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for he was very      
superior, being a traveller in wines. They got L4700 for the                
goodwill and interest, which wasn't near as much as father could            
have got if he had been alive."                                             
  I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this                
rambling and inconsequential narrative but on the contrary, he had          
listened with the greatest concentration of attention.                      
  "Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the              
business?"                                                                  
                                                             
  "Oh, no, sir. It is quite Separate and was left me by my uncle Ned        
in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4 1/2 per cent. Two         
thousand five hundred pounds was the amount but I can only touch the        
interest"                                                                   
  "You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw so          
large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the                
bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every         
way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an            
income of about L60."                                                       
  "I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand      
that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a burden to them,         
and so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with          
them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws        
my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find            
that I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings        
me twopence a sheet and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets        
in a day."                                                                  
  "You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes. "This        
is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as            
before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr.        
Hosmer Angel."                                                              
  A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked                 
nervously at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the              
gasfitters' ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets when he      
was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to         
mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to        
go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a        
Sunday school treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go;      
for what right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us      
to know, when all father's friends were to be there. And he said            
that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I           
had never so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing         
else would do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm,         
but we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman,      
and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel."                                   
                                                             
  "I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from         
France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball."                
  "Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and         
shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything          
to a woman, for she would have her way."                                    
  "I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a          
gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel."                                         
  "Yes, sir. I met him that night and he called next day to ask if          
we had got home all safe, and after that we met him-that is to say,         
Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back      
again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more."          
  "No?"                                                                     
                                                             
  "Well, you know, father didn't like anything of the sort. He              
wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say          
that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as         
I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with,        
and I had not got mine yet."                                                
  "But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?"      
  "Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer         
wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each other      
until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used to           
write every day. I took the letters in the so there was no need for         
father to know."                                                            
  "Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"                         
  "Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we        
took. Hosmer -Mr. Angel-was a cashier in an office in Leadenball            
Street-and-"                                                                
                                                             
  "What office?"                                                            
  "That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't know."                       
  "Where did he live, then?"                                                
  "He slept on the premises."                                               
  "And you don't know his address?"                                         
                                                             
  "No-except that it was Leadenhall Street."                                
  "Where did you address your letters, then?"                               
  "To the Leadenhall Street Post-Office, to be left till called for.        
He said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by         
all the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to      
typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't have that, for he          
said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they      
were typewritten he always felt that the machine had come between           
us. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the      
little things that he would think of."                                      
  "It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an axiom of      
mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you      
remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"                   
  "He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me          
in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be        
conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice           
was gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was              
young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a            
hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always well                
dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine          
are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare."                         
                                                             
  "Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather,             
returned to France?"                                                        
  "Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we            
should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and        
made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever                
happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right      
to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was         
all in his favour from the first and was even fonder of him than I          
was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the week, I began to         
ask about father; but they both said never to mind about father, but        
just to tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all          
right with him. I didn't quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed             
funny that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older         
than me; but I didn't want to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to         
father at Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices, but           
the letter came back to me on the very morning of the wedding."             
  "It missed him, then?"                                                    
  "Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived."         
  "Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for           
the Friday. Was it to be in church?"                                        
                                                             
  "Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's, near          
King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St.           
Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two        
of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a                     
four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street.        
We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we           
waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the cabman           
got down from the box and looked there was no one there! The cabman         
said that he could not imagine what had become of him, for he had seen      
him get in with his own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and         
I have never seen or heard anything since then to throw any light upon      
what became of him."                                                        
  "It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated," said         
Holmes.                                                                     
  "Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all           
the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be        
true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate      
us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he         
would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a        
wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a meaning to it."        
  "Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some             
unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"                                
  "Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would        
not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened."        
                                                             
  "But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"                   
  "None."                                                                   
  "One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"                 
  "She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter          
again."                                                                     
  "And your father? Did you tell him?"                                      
                                                             
  "Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had                 
happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what          
interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the               
church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if        
he had married me and got my money settled on him, there might be some      
reason, but Hosmer was very independent about money and never would         
look at a shilling of mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why      
could he not write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I         
can't sleep a wink at night." She pulled a little handkerchief out          
of her muff and began to sob heavily into it.                               
  "I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising, "and         
I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the           
weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind             
dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish        
from your memory, as he has done from your life."                           
  "Then you don't think I'll see him again?"                                
  "I fear not."                                                             
  "Then what has happened to him?"                                          
                                                             
  "You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate      
description of him and any letters of his which you can spare."             
  "I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said she. "Here      
is the slip and here are four letters from him."                            
  "Thank you. And your address?"                                            
  "No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."                                          
  "Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your           
father's place of business?"                                                
                                                             
  "He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of        
Fenchurch Street."                                                          
  "Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will           
leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you.      
Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect      
your life."                                                                 
  "You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be          
true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."                 
  For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was              
something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our      
respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and            
went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be            
summoned.                                                                   
  Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his finger-tips         
still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and         
his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the         
rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor,          
and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue        
cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor          
in his face.                                                                
                                                             
  "Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I found her      
more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather      
a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in      
Andover in '77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague            
last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two               
details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was most               
instructive."                                                               
  "You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible      
to me," I remarked.                                                         
  "Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to           
look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring           
you to realize the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of             
thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace.            
Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance? Describe it."        
  "Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a          
feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn      
upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was          
brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at      
the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were grayish and were worn through at      
the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't observe. She had small round,      
hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in      
a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way."                                     
  Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.           
                                                             
  "'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have         
really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed               
everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you         
have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my         
boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is              
always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to          
take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush          
upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing               
traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the                 
typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. The         
sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on        
the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead        
of being right across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced        
at her face, and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side          
of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting,          
which seemed to surprise her."                                              
  "It surprised me."                                                        
  "But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and               
interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which         
she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones;      
the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain          
one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and        
the other at the first third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a           
young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd      
boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came         
away in a hurry."                                                           
  "And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by          
my friend's incisive reasoning.                                             
  "I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving          
home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right             
glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see            
that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had            
written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this      
morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All            
this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to            
business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description      
of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"                                                       
                                                             
  I held the little printed slip to the light.                              
-                                                                           
  "Missing [it said] on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman          
named Hosmer Angel. About five feet seven inches in height; strongly        
built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the centre,          
bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight            
infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black                  
frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat gold Albert chain, and          
gray Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic sided           
boots. Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall               
Street. Anybody bringing-"                                                  
-                                                                           
  "That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he continued,           
glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue          
in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one         
remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you."                 
                                                             
  "They are typewritten," I remarked.                                       
  "Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat        
little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but          
no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The      
point about the signature is very suggestive-in fact, we may call it        
conclusive."                                                                
  "Of what?"                                                                
  "My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears      
upon the case?"                                                             
  "I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able          
to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were               
instituted."                                                                
                                                            
  "No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters,          
which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the           
other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him          
whether he could meet us here at six o'clock to-morrow evening. It          
is just as well that we should do business with the male relatives.         
And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those               
letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for           
the interim."                                                               
  I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers of      
reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he            
must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with        
which he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to      
fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King          
of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back        
to the weird business of "The Sign of Four", and the extraordinary          
circumstances connected with "A Study in Scarlet" I felt that it would      
be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.                      
  I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the           
conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find          
that he held in his hands an the clues which would lead up to the           
identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.            
  A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention        
at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of         
the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found          
myself free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker         
Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the               
denouement of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone,            
however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the             
recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and                 
test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid,            
told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so         
dear to him.                                                                
  "Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.                         
                                                            
  "Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."                                   
  "No, no, the mystery!" I cried.                                           
  "Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon.           
There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said                
yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is        
that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."                
  Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss               
Sutherland?"                                                                
  The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet           
opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the             
passage and a tap at the door.                                              
                                                            
  "This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes.        
"He, has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!"       
  The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty        
years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland,               
insinuating manner, and a pair wonderfully sharp and penetrating            
gray eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his           
shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down         
into the nearest chair.                                                     
  "Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think that this      
typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment            
with me for six o'clock?"                                                   
  "Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite        
my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has                
troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better         
not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my            
wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl,          
as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has      
made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as      
you are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant      
to have a family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is         
a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?"      
  "On the contrary," said Holmes quietly; "I have every reason to           
believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel."               
                                                            
  Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. "I am          
delighted to hear it," he said.                                             
  "It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a typewriter has          
really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. Unless they      
are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get         
more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark      
in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some      
little slurring over of the 'e,' and a slight defect in the tail of         
the 'r.' There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the        
more obvious."                                                              
  "We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and        
no doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered, glancing keenly        
at Holmes with his bright little eyes.                                      
  "And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study,         
Mr. Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing another little        
monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to          
crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little                  
attention. I have here four letters which purport to come from the          
missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not only are           
the 'e's' slurred and the 'r's' tailless, but you will observe, if you      
care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other                     
characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well."                 
  Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. "I           
cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes," he         
said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you        
have done it."                                                              
                                                            
  "Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the        
door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"                       
  "What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips           
and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.                                
  "Oh, it won't do-really it won't," said Holmes suavely. "There is no      
possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too                  
transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it         
was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's right! Sit      
down and let us talk it over."                                              
  Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a             
glitter of moisture on his brow. "It-it's not actionable," he               
stammered.                                                                  
  "I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves,             
Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a           
petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course      
of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."                       
                                                            
  The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his          
breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on        
the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in           
his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to        
us.                                                                         
  "The man married a woman very much older than himself for her             
money," said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the                
daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum,         
for people in their position, and the loss of it would have made a          
serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The              
daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate and           
warmhearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with her fair          
personal advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed        
to remain single long. Now her marriage would mean, of course, the          
loss of a hundred a year, so what does her stepfather do to prevent         
it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and                  
forbidding her to seek the company of people of her own age. But            
soon he found that that not answer forever. She became restive,             
insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her positive intention      
of going to a certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then?        
He conceives an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart.         
With the connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself,        
covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a         
moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into          
an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl's          
short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other            
lovers by making love himself."                                             
  "It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We never             
thought that she would have been so carried away."                          
  "Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very            
decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her         
stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an           
instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's              
attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed            
admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was          
obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a         
real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an                
engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections from           
turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up         
forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous.           
The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such         
a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon           
the young lady's mind and prevent her from looking upon any other           
suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted          
upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of          
something happening on the very morning of the wedding. James               
Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and        
so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any             
rate, she would not listen to another man. As far as the church door        
he brought her, and then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently        
vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a              
four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that the chain of events,        
Mr. Windibank!"                                                             
  Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes         
had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer          
upon his pale face.                                                         
                                                            
  "It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but if you           
are so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is           
you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing           
actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked         
you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal                  
constraint."                                                                
  "The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes, unlocking           
and throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who deserved         
punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought      
to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!" he continued,                
flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face,           
"it is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting crop        
handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to--" He took two swift        
steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild            
clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from      
the window we could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top of           
his speed down the road.                                                    
  "There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing, as he          
threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow will rise         
from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a         
gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of        
interest."                                                                  
  "I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning," I            
remarked.                                                                   
  "Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr.              
Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and      
it was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the           
incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact         
that the two men were never together, but that the one always appeared      
when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles      
and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the          
bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar            
action in typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that        
his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognize even        
the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts,                
together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction."          
                                                            
  "And how did you verify them?"                                            
  "Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I          
knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed           
description, I eliminated everything from it which could be the result      
of a disguise-the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to        
the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it answered      
to the description of any of their travellers. I had already noticed        
the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at      
his business address, asking him if he would come here. As I expected,      
his reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but                 
characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from              
Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the                   
description tallied in every respect with that of their employee,           
James Windibank. Voila tout!"                                               
  "And Miss Sutherland?"                                                    
  "If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old          
Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and      
danger also for who so snatches a delusion from a woman.' There is          
as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the           
world."                                                                     
                                                                           
                                                                           
                            -THE END-                                       
                                                                            
                                                                            
