


                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                      1926                                  
                                                                            
                                SHERLOCK HOLMES                             
                                                                            
                        THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION'S MANE                    
                                                                            
                           by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle                        
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
        
                                                                            
                                                 
                                                                           
  It is a most singular thing that a problem which was certainly as         
abstruse and unusual as any which I have faced in my long professional      
career should have come to me after my retirement, and be brought,          
as it were, to my very door. It occurred after my withdrawal to my          
little Sussex home, when I had given myself up entirely to that             
soothing life of Nature for which I had so often yearned during the         
long years spent amid the gloom of London. At this period of my life        
the good Watson had passed almost beyond my ken. An occasional              
week-end visit was the most that I ever saw of him. Thus I must act as      
my own chronicler. Ah! had he but been with me, how much he might have      
made of so wonderful a happening and of my eventual triumph against         
every difficulty! As it is, however, I must needs tell my tale in my        
own plain way, showing by my words each step upon the difficult road        
which lay before me as I searched for the mystery of the Lion's Mane.       
  My villa is situated upon the southern slope of the downs,                
commanding a great view of the Channel. At this point the coast-line        
is entirely of chalk cliffs, which can only be descended by a               
single, long, tortuous path, which is steep and slippery. At the            
bottom of the path lie a hundred yards of pebbles and shingle, even         
when the tide is at full. Here and there, however, there are curves         
and hollows which make splendid swimming-pools filled afresh with each      
flow. This admirable beach extends for some miles in each direction,        
save only at one point where the little cove and village of Fulworth        
break the line.                                                             
  My house is lonely. I, my old housekeeper, and my bees have the           
estate all to ourselves. Half a mile off, however, is Harold                
Stackhurst's well-known coaching establishment, The Gables, quite a         
large place, which contains some score of young fellows preparing           
for various professions, with a staff of several masters. Stackhurst        
himself was a well-known rowing Blue in his day, and an excellent           
all-round scholar. He and I were always friendly from the day I came        
to the coast, and he was the one man who was on such terms with me          
that we could drop in on each other in the evenings without an              
invitation.                                                                 
  Towards the end of July, 1907, there was a severe gale, the wind          
blowing upchannel, heaping the seas to the base of the cliffs and           
leaving a lagoon at the turn of the tide. On the morning of which I         
speak the wind had abated, and all Nature was newly washed and              
fresh. It was impossible to work upon so delightful a day, and I            
strolled out before breakfast to enjoy the exquisite air. I walked          
along the cliff path which led to the steep descent to the beach. As I      
walked I heard a shout behind me, and there was Harold Stackhurst           
waving his hand in cheery greeting.                                         
  "What a morning, Mr. Holmes! I thought I should see you out."             
  "Going for a swim, I see."                                                
                                                              
  "At your old tricks again," he laughed, patting his bulging               
pocket. "Yes. McPherson started early, and I expect I may find him          
there."                                                                     
  Fitzroy McPherson was the science master, a fine upstanding young         
fellow whose life had been crippled by heart trouble following              
rheumatic fever. He was a natural athlete, however, and excelled in         
every game which did not throw too great a strain upon him. Summer and      
winter he went for his swim, and, as I am a swimmer myself, I have          
often joined him.                                                           
  At this moment we saw the man himself. His head showed above the          
edge of the cliff where the path ends. Then his whole figure                
appeared at the top, staggering like a drunken man. The next instant        
he threw up his hands and, with a terrible cry, fell upon his face.         
Stackhurst and I rushed forward- it may have been fifty yards- and          
turned him on his back. He was obviously dying. Those glazed sunken         
eyes and dreadful livid cheeks could mean nothing else. One glimmer of      
life came into his face: for an instant, and he uttered two or three        
words with an eager air of warning. They were slurred and                   
indistinct, but to my ear the list of them, which burst in a shriek         
from his lips, were "the Lion's Mane." It was utterly irrelevant and        
unintelligible, and yet I could twist the sound into no other sense.        
Then he half raised himself from the ground, threw his arms into the        
air, and fell forward on his side. He was dead.                             
  My companion was paralyzed by the sudden horror of it, but I, as may      
well be imagined, had every sense on the alert. And I had need, for it      
was speedily evident that we were, in the presence of an extraordinary      
case. The man was dressed only in his Burberry overcoat, his trousers,      
and an unlaced pair of canvas shoes. As he fell over, his Burberry,         
which had been simply thrown round his shoulders, slipped off,              
exposing his trunk. We stared at it in amazement. His back was covered      
with dark red lines as though he had been terribly flogged by a thin        
wire scourge. The instrument with which this punishment had been            
inflicted was clearly flexible, for the long, angry weals cursed round      
his shoulders and ribs. There was blood dripping down his chin, for he      
had bitten through his lower lip in the paroxysm of his agony. His          
drawn and distorted face told how terrible that agony had been.             
  I was kneeling and Stackhurst standing by the body when a shadow          
fell across us, and we found that Ian Murdoch was by our side. Murdoch      
was the mathematical coach at the establishment, a tall, dark, thin         
man, so taciturn and aloof that none can be said to have been his           
friend. He seemed to live in some high, abstract region of surds and        
conic sections, with little to connect him with ordinary life. He           
was looked upon as an oddity by the students, and would have been           
their butt, but there was some strange outlandish blood in the man,         
which showed itself not only in his coal-black eyes and swarthy face        
but also in occasional outbreaks of temper, which could only be             
described as ferocious. On one occasion, being plagued by a little dog      
belonging to McPherson, he had caught the creature up and burled it         
through the plate-glass window, an action for which Stackhurst would        
certainly have given him his dismissal had he not been a very valuable      
teacher. Such was the strange complex man who now appeared beside           
us. He seemed to be honestly shocked at the sight before him, though        
the incident of the dog may show that there was no great sympathy           
between the dead man and himself.                                           
                                                             
  "Poor fellow! Poor fellow! What can I do? How can I help?"                
  "Were you with him? Can you tell us what has happened?"                   
  "No, no, I was late this morning. I was not on the beach at all. I        
have come straight from The Gables. What can I do?"                         
  "You can hurry to the police-station at Fulworth. Report the              
matter at once."                                                            
  Without a word he made off at top speed, and I proceeded to take the      
matter in hand, while Stackhurst, dazed at this tragedy, remained by        
the body. My first task naturally was to note who was on the beach.         
From the top of the path I could see the whole sweep of it, and it was      
absolutely deserted save that two or three dark figures could be            
seen far away moving towards the village of Fulworth. Having satisfied      
myself upon this point, I walked slowly down the path. There was            
clay or soft marl mixed with the chalk, and every here and there I saw      
the same footstep, both ascending and descending. No one else had gone      
down to the beach by this track that morning. At one place I                
observed the print of an open hand with the fingers towards the             
incline. This could only mean that poor McPherson had fallen as he          
ascended. There were rounded depressions, too, which suggested that he      
had come down upon his knees more than once. At the bottom of the path      
was the considerable lagoon left by the retreating tide. At the side        
of it McPherson had undressed, for there lay his towel on a rock. It        
was folded and dry, so that it would seem that, after all, he had           
never entered the water. Once or twice as I hunted round amid the hard      
shingle I came on little patches of sand where the print of his canvas      
shoe, and also of his naked foot, could be seen. The latter fact            
proved that he had made all ready to bathe, though the towel indicated      
that he had not actually done so.                                           
                                                             
  And here was the problem clearly defined- as strange a one as had         
ever confronted me. The man had not been on the beach more than a           
quarter of an hour at the most. Stackhurst had followed him from The        
Gables, so there could be no doubt about that. He had gone to bathe         
and had stripped, as the naked footsteps showed. Then he had                
suddenly huddled on his clothes again- they were all dishevelled and        
unfastened- and he had returned without bathing, or at any, rate            
without drying himself. And the reason for his change of purpose had        
been that he had been scourged in sonic savage, inhuman fashion,            
tortured until he bit his lip through in his agony, and was left            
with only strength enough to crawl away and to die. Who had done            
this barbarous deed? There were, it is true, small grottos and caves        
in the base of the cliffs, but the low sun shone directly into them,        
and there was no place for concealment. Then, again, there were             
those distant figures on the beach. They seemed too far away to have        
been connected with the crime, and the broad lagoon in which McPherson      
had intended to bathe lay between him and them, lapping tip to the          
rocks. On the sea two or three fishing-boats were at no great               
distance. Their occupants might be examined at our leisure. There were      
several roads for inquiry, but none which led to any very obvious           
goal.                                                                       
  When I at last returned to the body I found that a little group of        
wondering folk had gathered round it. Stackhurst was, of course, still      
there, and Ian Murdoch had just arrived with Anderson, the village          
constable, a big, ginger-moustached man of the slow, solid Sussex           
breed- a breed which covers much good sense under a heavy, silent           
exterior. He listened to everything, took note of all we said, and          
finally drew me aside.                                                      
  "I'd be glad of your advice, Mr. Holmes. This is a big thing for          
me to handle, and I'll hear of it from Lewes if I go wrong."                
  I advised him to send for his immediate superior, and for a               
doctor; also to allow nothing to be moved, and as few fresh                 
footmarks as possible to be made, until they came. In the meantime I        
searched the dead man's pockets. There were his handkerchief, a             
large knife, and a small folding card-case. From this projected a slip      
of paper, which I unfolded and handed to the constable. There was           
written on it in a scrambling, feminine hand:                               
-                                                                           
                                                             
             I will be there, you may be sure.                              
                                                          MAUDIE.           
-                                                                           
  It read like a love affair, an assignation, though when and where         
were a blank. The constable replaced it in the card-case and                
returned it with the other things to the pockets of the Burberry.           
Then, as nothing more suggested itself, I walked back to my house           
for breakfast, having first arranged that the base of the cliffs            
should be thoroughly searched.                                              
  Stackhurst was round in an hour or two to tell me that the body           
had been removed to The Gables, where the inquest would be held. He         
brought with him some serious and definite news. As I expected,             
nothing had been found in the small caves below the cliff, but he           
had examined the papers in McPherson's desk, and there were several         
which showed an intimate correspondence with a certain Miss Maud            
Bellamy, of Fulworth. We had then established the identity of the           
writer of the note.                                                         
                                                             
  "The police have the letters," he explained. "I could not bring           
them. But there is no doubt that it was a serious love affair. I see        
no reason, however, to connect it with that horrible happening save,        
indeed, that the lady had made an appointment with him."                    
  "But hardly at a bathing-pool which all of you were in the habit          
of using," I remarked.                                                      
  "It is mere chance," said he, "that several of the students were not      
with McPherson."                                                            
  "Was it mere chance?"                                                     
  Stackhurst knit his brows in thought.                                     
                                                             
  "Ian Murdoch held them back," said he. "He would insist upon some         
algebraic demonstration before breakfast. Poor chap, he is                  
dreadfully cut up about it all."                                            
  "And yet I gather that they were not friends."                            
  "At one time they were not. But for a year or more Murdoch has            
been as near to McPherson as he ever could be to anyone. He is not          
of a very sympathetic disposition by nature."                               
  "So I understand. I seem to remember your telling me once about a         
quarrel over the ill-usage of a dog."                                       
  "That blew over all right."                                               
                                                             
  "But left some vindictive feeling, perhaps."                              
  "No, no, I am sure they were real friends."                               
  "Well, then, we must explore the matter of the girl. Do you know          
her?"                                                                       
  "Everyone knows her. She is the beauty of the neighbourhood- a            
real beauty, Holmes, who would draw attention everywhere. I knew            
that McPherson was attracted by her, but I had no notion that it had        
gone so far as these letters would seem to indicate."                       
  "But who is she?"                                                         
                                                             
  "She is the daughter of old Tom Bellamy, who owns all the boats           
and bathing-cots at Fulworth. He was a fisherman to start with, but is      
now a man of some substance. He and his son William run the business."      
  "Shall we walk into Fulworth and see them?"                               
  "On what pretext?"                                                        
  "Oh, we can easily find a pretext. After all, this poor man did           
not ill-use himself in this outrageous way. Some human hand was on the      
handle of that scourge, if indeed it was a scourge which inflicted the      
injuries. His circle of acquaintances in this lonely place was              
surely limited. Let us follow it up in every direction and we can           
hardly fail to come upon the motive, which in turn should lead us to        
the criminal."                                                              
  It would have been a pleasant walk across the thyme-scented downs         
had our minds not been poisoned by the tragedy we had witnessed. The        
village of Fulworth lies in a hollow curving in a semicircle round the      
bay. Behind the old-fashioned hamlet several modern houses have been        
built upon the rising ground. It was to one of these that Stackhurst        
guided me.                                                                  
                                                             
  "That's The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner          
tower and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing            
but- By Jove, look at that!"                                                
  The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged. There      
was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was Ian          
Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon           
the road.                                                                   
  "Hullo!" said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sideways              
glance from his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his        
principal pulled him up.                                                    
  "What were you doing there?" he asked.                                    
  Murdoch's face flushed with anger. "I am your subordinate, sir,           
under your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my            
private actions."                                                           
                                                             
  Stackhurst's nerve; were near the surface after all he had                
endured. Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his          
temper completely.                                                          
  "In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr.               
Murdoch."                                                                   
  "Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading."            
  "This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your              
insubordinate ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly          
make fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can."            
  "I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who          
made The Gables habitable."                                                 
                                                             
  He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with angry eyes, stood      
glaring after him. "Is he not an impossible, intolerable man" he            
cried.                                                                      
  The one thing that impressed itself forcibly upon my mind was that        
Mr. Ian Murdoch was taking the first chance to open a path of escape        
from the scene of the crime. Suspicion, vague and nebulous, was now         
beginning to take outline in my mind. Perhaps the visit to the              
Bellamys might throw some further light upon the matter. Stackhurst         
pulled himself together, and we went forward to the house.                  
  Mr. Bellamy proved to be a middle-aged man with a flaming red beard.      
He seemed to be in a very angry mood, and his face was soon as              
florid as his hair.                                                         
  "No, sir, I do not desire any particulars. My son here"-                  
indicating a powerful young man, with a heavy, sullen face, in the          
corner of the sitting-room- "is of one mind with me that Mr.                
McPherson's attentions to Maud were insulting. Yes, sir, the word           
'marriage' was never mentioned, and yet there were letters and              
meetings, and a great deal more of which neither of us could                
approve. She has no mother, and we are her only guardians. We are           
determined-"                                                                
  But the words were taken from his mouth by the appearance of the          
lady herself. There was no gainsaying that she would have graced any        
assembly in the world. Who could have imagined that so rare a flower        
would grow from such a root and in such an atmosphere? Women have           
seldom been an attraction to me, for my brain has always governed my        
heart, but I could not look upon her perfect clear-cut face, with           
all the soft freshness of the downlands in her delicate colouring,          
without realizing that no young man would cross her path unscathed.         
Such was the girl who had pushed open the door and stood now,               
wide-eyed and intense, in front of Harold Stackhurst.                       
                                                             
  "I know already that Fitzroy is dead," she said. "Do not be afraid        
to tell me the particulars."                                                
  "This other gentleman of yours let us know the news," explained           
the father.                                                                 
  "There is no reason why my sister should be brought into the              
matter," growled the younger man.                                           
  The sister turned a sharp, fierce look upon him. "This is my              
business, William. Kindly leave me to manage it in my own way. By           
all accounts there has been a crime committed. If I can help to show        
who did it, it is the least I can do for him who is gone."                  
  She listened to a short account from my companion, with a composed        
concentration which showed me that she possessed strong character as        
well as great beauty. Maud Bellamy will always remain in my memory          
as a most complete and remarkable woman. It seems that she already          
knew me by sight, for she turned to me at the end.                          
                                                             
  "Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes. You have my sympathy and my           
help, whoever they may be." It seemed to me that she glanced defiantly      
at her father and brother as she spoke.                                     
  "Thank you," said I. "I value a woman's instinct in such matters.         
You use the word 'they.' You think that more than one was concerned?"       
  "I knew Mr. McPherson well enough to be aware that he was a brave         
and a strong man. No single person could ever have inflicted such an        
outrage upon him."                                                          
  "Might I have one word with you alone?"                                   
  "I tell you, Maud, not to mix yourself up in the matter," cried           
her father angrily.                                                         
                                                             
  She looked at me helplessly. "What can I do?"                             
  "The whole world will know the facts presently, so there can be no        
harm if I discuss them here," said I. "I should have preferred              
privacy, but if your father will not allow it he must share the             
deliberations." Then I spoke of the note which had been found in the        
dead man's pocket. "It is sure to be produced at the inquest. May I         
ask you to throw any light upon it that you can?"                           
  "I see no reason for mystery," she answered. "We were engaged to          
be married, and we only kept it secret because Fitzroy's uncle, who is      
very old and said to be dying, might have disinherited him if he had        
married against his wish. There was no other reason."                       
  "You could have told us," growled Mr. Bellamy.                            
  "So I would, father, if you had ever shown sympathy."                     
                                                             
  "I object to my girl picking up with men outside her own station."        
  "It was your prejudice against him which prevented us from telling        
you. As to this appointment"- she fumbled in her dress and produced         
a crumpled note "it was in answer to this."                                 
-                                                                           
  DEAREST [ran the message]:                                                
  The old place on the beach just after sunset on Tuesday. It is the        
only time I can get away.                                                   
                                                             
                                                           F. M.            
-                                                                           
  "Tuesday was to-day, and I had meant to meet him to-night."               
  I turned over the paper. "This never came by post. How did you get        
it?"                                                                        
  "I would rather not answer that question. It has really nothing to        
do with the matter which you are investigating. But anything which          
bears upon that I will most freely answer."                                 
                                                             
  She was as good as her word, but there was nothing which was helpful      
in our investigation. She had no reason to think that her fiance had        
any hidden enemy, but she admitted that she had had several warm            
admirers.                                                                   
  "May I ask if Mr. Ian Murdoch was one of them?"                           
  She blushed and seemed confused.                                          
  "There was a time when I thought he was. But that was all changed         
when he understood the relations between Fitzroy and myself."               
  Again the shadow round this strange man seemed to me to be taking         
more definite shape. His record must be examined. His rooms must be,        
privately searched. Stackhurst was a willing collaborator, for in           
his mind also suspicions were forming. We returned from our visit to        
The haven with the hope that one free end of this tangled skein was         
already in our hands.                                                       
                                                             
  A week passed. The inquest had thrown no light upon the matter and        
had been adourned for further evidence. Stackhurst had made discreet        
inquiry about his subordinate, and there had been a superficial search      
of his room, but without result. Personally, I had gone over the whole      
ground again, both physically and mentally, but with no new                 
conclusions. In all my chronicles the reader will find no case which        
brought me so completely to the limit of my powers. Even my                 
imagination could conceive no solution to the mystery. And then             
there came the incident of the dog.                                         
  It was my old housekeeper who heard of it first by that strange           
wireless by which such people collect the news of the countryside.          
  "Sad story this, sir, about Mr. McPherson's dog," said she one            
evening.                                                                    
  I do not encourage such conversations, but the words arrested my          
attention.                                                                  
  "What of Mr. McPherson's dog?"                                            
                                                             
  "Dead, sir. Died of grief for its master."                                
  "Who told you this?"                                                      
  "Why, sir, everyone is talking of it. It took on terrible, and has        
eaten nothing for a week. Then to-day two of the young gentlemen            
from The Gables found it dead- down on the beach, sir, at the very          
place where its master met his end."                                        
  "At the very place." The words stood out clear in my memory. Some         
dim perception that the matter was vital rose in my mind. That the dog      
should die was after the beautiful, faithful nature of dogs. But "in        
the very place"! Why should this lonely beach be fatal to it? Was it        
possible that it also had been sacrificed to some revengeful feud? Was      
it possible-? Yes, the perception was dim, but already something was        
building up in my mind. In a few minutes I was on my way to The             
Gables, where I found Stackhurst in his study. At my request he sent        
for Sudbury and Blount, the two students who had found the dog.             
  "Yes, it lay on the very edge of the pool," said one of them. "It         
must have followed the trail of its dead master."                           
                                                            
  I saw the faithful little creature, an Airedale terrier, laid out         
upon the mat in the ball. The body was stiff and rigid, the eyes            
projecting, and the limbs contorted. There was agony in every line          
of it.                                                                      
  From The Gables I walked down to the bathing-pool. The sun had            
sunk and the shadow of the great cliff lay black across the water,          
which glimmered dully like a sheet of lead. The place was deserted and      
there was no sign of life save for two sea-birds circling and               
screaming overhead. In the fading light I could dimly make out the          
little dog's spoor upon the sand round the very rock on which his           
master's towel had been laid. For a long time I stood in deep               
meditation while the shadows grew darker around me. My mind was filled      
with racing thoughts. You have known what it was to be in a                 
nightmare in which you feel that there is some all-important thing for      
which you search and which you know is there, though it remains             
forever just beyond your reach. That was how I felt that evening as         
I stood alone by that place of death. Then at last I turned and walked      
slowly homeward.                                                            
  I had just reached the top of the path when it came to me. Like a         
flash, I remembered the thing for which I had so eagerly and vainly         
grasped. You will know, or Watson has written in vain, that I hold a        
vast store of out-of-the-way knowledge without scientific system,           
but very available for the needs of my work. My mind is like a crowded      
box-room with packets of all sorts stowed away therein- so many that I      
may well have but a vague perception of what was there. I had known         
that there was something which might bear upon this matter. It was          
still vague, but at least I knew how I could make it clear. It was          
monstrous, incredible, and yet it was always a possibility. I would         
test it to the full.                                                        
  There is a great garret in my little house which is stuffed with          
books. It was into this that I plunged and rummaged for all hour. At        
the end of that time I emerged with a little chocolate and silver           
volume. Eagerly I turned up the chapter of which I had a dim                
remembrance. Yes, it was indeed a far-fetched and unlikely                  
proposition, and yet I could not be at rest until I had made sure if        
it might, indeed, be so. It was late when I retired, with my mind           
eagerly awaiting the work of the morrow.                                    
  But that work met with an annoying interruption. I had hardly             
swallowed my early cup of tea and was starting for the beach when I         
had a call from Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary- a steady,      
solid, bovine man with thoughtful eyes, which looked at me now with         
a very troubled expression.                                                 
                                                            
  "I know your immense experience, sir," said he. "This is quite            
unofficial, of course, and need go no farther. But I am fairly up           
against it in this McPherson case. The question is, shall I make an         
arrest, or shall I not?"                                                    
  "Meaning Mr. Ian Murdoch?"                                                
  "Yes, sir. There is really no one else when you come to think of it.      
That's the advantage of this solitude. We narrow it down to a very          
small compass. If he did not do it, then who did?"                          
  "What have you against him?"                                              
  He had gleaned along the same furrows as I had. There was                 
Murdoch's character and the mystery which seemed to hang round the          
man. His furious bursts of temper, as shown in the incident of the          
dog. The fact that he had quarrelled with McPherson in the past, and        
that there was some reason to think that he might have resented his         
attentions to Miss Bellamy. He had all my points, but no fresh ones,        
save that Murdoch seemed to be making every preparation for departure.      
                                                            
  "What would my position be if I let him slip away with all this           
evidence against him?" The burly, phlegmatic man was sorely troubled        
in his mind.                                                                
  "Consider," I said, "all the essential gaps in your case. On the          
morning of the crime he can surely prove an alibi. He had been with         
his scholars till the last moment, and within a few minutes of              
McPherson's appearance he came upon us from behind. Then bear in            
mind the absolute impossibility that he could singlehanded have             
inflicted this outrage upon a man quite as strong as himself. Finally,      
there is this question of the instrument with which these injuries          
were inflicted."                                                            
  "What could it be but a scourge or flexible whip of some sort?"           
  "Have you examined the marks?" I asked.                                   
  "I have seen them. So has the doctor."                                    
                                                            
  "But I have examined them very carefully with a lens. They have           
peculiarities."                                                             
  "What are they, Mr. Holmes?"                                              
  I stepped to my bureau and brought out an enlarged photograph. "This      
is my method in such cases," I explained.                                   
  "You certainly do things thoroughly, Mr. Holmes."                         
  "I should hardly be what I am if I did not. Now let us consider this      
weal which extends round the right shoulder. Do you observe nothing         
remarkable?"                                                                
                                                            
  "I can't say I do."                                                       
  "Surely it is evident that it is unequal in its intensity. There          
is a dot of extravasated blood here, and another there. There are           
similar indications in this other weal down here. What can that mean?"      
  "I have no idea. Have you?"                                               
  "Perhaps I have. Perhaps I haven't. I may be able to say more             
soon. Anything which will define what made that mark will bring us a        
long way towards the criminal."                                             
  "It is, of course, in absurd idea," said the policeman, "but if a         
red-hot net of wire had been laid across the back, then these better        
marked points would represent where the meshes crossed each other."         
                                                            
  "A most ingenious comparison. Or shall we say a very stiff                
cat-o'-nine-tails with small hard knots upon it?"                           
  "By Jove, Mr. Holmes, I think you have hit it."                           
  "Or there may be some very different cause, Mr. Bardle. But your          
case is far too weak for an arrest. Besides, we have those last words-      
the 'Lion's Mane.'"                                                         
  I have wondered whether Ian-"                                             
  "Yes, I have considered that. If the second word had borne any            
resemblance to Murdoch- but it did not. He gave it almost in a shriek.      
I am sure that it was 'Mane.'"                                              
                                                            
  "Have you no alternative, Mr. Holmes?"                                    
  "Perhaps I have. But I do not care to discuss it until there is           
something more solid to discuss."                                           
  "And when will that be?"                                                  
  "In all hour- possibly less."                                             
  The inspector rubbed his chin and looked at me with dubious eyes.         
                                                            
  "I wish I could see what was in your mind, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps            
it's those fishing-boats."                                                  
  "No, no, they were too far out."                                          
  "Well, then, is it Bellamy and that big son of his? They were not         
too sweet upon Mr. McPherson. Could they have done him a mischief?"         
  "No, no, you won't draw me until I am ready," said I with a smile.        
"Now, Inspector, we each have our own work to do. Perhaps if you            
were to meet me here at midday-"                                            
  So far we had got when there came the tremendous interruption             
which was the beginning of the end.                                         
                                                            
  My outer door was flung open, there were blundering footsteps in the      
passage, and Ian Murdoch staggered into the room, pallid, dishevelled,      
his clothes in wild disorder, clawing with his bony hands at the            
furniture to hold himself great. "Brandy! Brandy!" he gasped, and fell      
groaning upon the sofa.                                                     
  He was not alone. Behind him came Stackhurst, hatless and panting,        
almost as distrait as his companion.                                        
  "Yes, yes, brandy!" he cried. "The man is at his last gasp. It was        
all I could do to bring him here. He fainted twice upon the way."           
  Half a tumbler of the raw spirit brought about a wondrous change. He      
pushed himself up on one arm and swung his coat from his shoulder "For      
God's sake, oil, opium, morphia!" he cried. "Anything to ease this          
infernal agony!" The inspector and I cried out at the sight. There,         
crisscrossed upon the man's naked shoulder, was the same strange            
reticulated pattern of red, inflamed lines which had been the               
death-mark of Fitzroy, McPherson.                                           
  The pain was evidently terrible and was more than local, for the          
sufferer's breathing would stop for a time, his face would turn black,      
and then with loud gasps he would clap his hand to his heart, while         
his brow dropped beads of sweat. At any moment he might die. More           
and more brandy was poured down his throat, each fresh dose bringing        
him back to life. Pads of cotton-wool soaked in salad-oil seemed to         
take the agony from the strange wounds. At last his head fell               
heavily upon the cushion. Exhausted Nature had taken refuge in its          
last storehouse of vitality. It was half a sleep and half a faint, but      
at least it was ease from pain.                                             
                                                            
  To question him had been impossible, but the moment we were               
assured of his condition Stackhurst turned upon me.                         
  "My God!" he cried, "what is it, Holmes? What is it?"                     
  "Where did you find him?"                                                 
  "Down on the beach. Exactly where poor McPherson met his end. If          
this man's heart had been weak as McPherson's was, he would not be          
here now. More than once I thought he was gone as I brought him up. It      
was too far to The Gables, so I made for you."                              
  "Did you see him on the beach?"                                           
                                                            
  "I was walking on the cliff when I heard his cry. He was at the edge      
of the water, reeling about like a drunken man. I ran down, threw some      
clothes about him, and brought him up. For heaven's sake, Holmes,           
use all the powers you have and spare no pains to lift the curse            
from this place, for life is becoming unendurable. Can you, with all        
your world-wide reputation, do nothing for us?"                             
  "I think I can, Stackhurst. Come with me now! And you, Inspector,         
come along! We will see if we cannot deliver this murderer into your        
hands."                                                                     
  Leaving the unconscious man in the charge of my housekeeper, we           
all three went down to the deadly lagoon. On the shingle there was          
piled a little heap of towels and clothes left by the stricken man.         
Slowly I walked round the edge of the water, my comrades in Indian          
file behind me. Most of the pool was quite shallow, but under the           
cliff where the beach was hollowed out it was four or five feet             
deep. It was to this part that a swimmer would naturally go, for it         
formed a beautiful pellucid green pool as clear as crystal. A line          
of rocks lay above it at the base of the cliff, and along this I led        
the way, peering eagerly into the depths beneath me. I had reached the      
deepest and stillest pool when my eyes caught that for which they were      
searching, and I burst into a shout of triumph.                             
  "Cyanea!" I cried. "Cyanea! Behold the Lion's Mane!"                      
  The strange object at which I pointed did indeed look like a tangled      
mass torn from the mane of a lion. It lay upon a rocky shelf some           
three feet under the water, a curious waving, vibrating, hairy              
creature with streaks of silver among its yellow tresses. It                
pulsated with a slow, heavy dilation and contraction.                       
                                                            
  "It has done mischief enough. Its day is over!" I cried. "Help me,        
Stackhurst! Let us end the murderer forever."                               
  There was a big boulder just above the ledge, and we pushed it until      
it fell with a tremendous splash into the water. When the ripples           
had cleared we saw that it had settled upon the ledge below. One            
flapping edge of yellow membrane showed that our victim was beneath         
it. A thick oily scum oozed out from below the stone and stained the        
water round, rising slowly to the surface.                                  
  "Well, this gets me!" cried the inspector. "What was it, Mr. Holmes?      
I'm born and bred in these parts, but I never saw such a thing. It          
don't belong to Sussex."                                                    
  "Just as well for Sussex," I remarked. "It may have been the              
southwest gale that brought it up. Come back to my house, both of you,      
and I will give you the terrible experience of one who has good reason      
to remember his own meeting with the same peril of the seas."               
  When we reached my study we found that Murdoch was so far                 
recovered that he could sit up. He was dazed in mind, and every now         
and then was shaken by a paroxysm of pain. In broken words he               
explained that he had no notion what had occurred to him, save that         
terrific pangs had suddenly shot through him, and that it had taken         
all his fortitude to reach the bank.                                        
                                                            
  "Here is a book," I said, taking up the little volume, "which             
first brought light into what might have been forever dark. It is           
Out of Doors, by the famous observer, J. G. Wood. Wood himself very         
nearly perished from contact with this vile creature, so he wrote with      
a very full knowledge. Cyanea capillata is the miscreant's full             
name, and he can be as dangerous to life as, and far more painful           
than, the bite of the cobra. Let me briefly give this extract.              
-                                                                           
  "If the bather should see a loose roundish mass of tawny membranes        
and fibres, something like very large handfuls of lion's mane and           
silver paper, let him beware, for this is the fearful stinger,              
Cyanea capillata.                                                           
-                                                                           
Could our sinister acquaintance be more clearly described?                  
  "He goes on to tell of his own encounter with one when swimming           
off the coast of Kent. He found that the creature radiated almost           
invisible filaments to the distance of fifty feet, and that anyone          
within that circumference from the deadly centre was in danger of           
death. Even at a distance the effect upon Wood was almost fatal.            
                                                            
-                                                                           
  "The multitudinous threads caused light scarlet lines upon the            
skin which on closer examination resolved into minute dots or               
pustules, each dot charged as it were with a red-hot needle making its      
way through the nerves.                                                     
-                                                                           
  "The local pain was, as he explains, the least part of the exquisite      
torment.                                                                    
-                                                                           
                                                            
  "Pangs shot through the chest, causing me to fall as if struck by         
a bullet. The pulsation would cease, and then the heart would give six      
or seven leaps as if it would force its way through the chest.              
-                                                                           
  "It nearly killed him, although he had only been exposed to it in         
the disturbed ocean and not in the narrow calm waters of a                  
bathing-pool. He says that he could hardly recognize himself                
afterwards, so white, wrinkled and shrivelled was his face. He              
griped down brandy, a whole bottleful, and it seems to have saved           
his life. There is the book, Inspector. I leave it with you, and you        
cannot doubt that it contains a full explanation of the tragedy of          
poor McPherson."                                                            
  "And incidentally exonerates me," remarked Ian Murdoch with a wry         
smile. "I do not blame you, Inspector, nor you, Mr. Holmes, for your        
suspicions were natural. I feel that on the very eve of my arrest I         
have only cleared myself by sharing the fate of my poor friend."            
  "No, Mr. Murdoch. I was already upon the track, and had I been out        
as early as I intended I might well have saved you from this                
terrific experience."                                                       
                                                            
  "But how did you know, Mr. Holmes?"                                       
  "I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for          
trifles. That phrase 'the Lion's Mane' haunted my mind. I knew that         
I had seen it somewhere in an unexpected context. You have seen that        
it does describe the creature. I have no doubt that it was floating on      
the water when McPherson saw it, and that this phrase was the only one      
by which he could convey to us a warning as to the creature which           
had been his death."                                                        
  "Then I, at least, am cleared," said Murdoch, rising slowly to his        
feet. "There are one or two words of explanation which I should             
give, for I know the direction in which your inquiries have run. It is      
true that I loved this lady, but from the day when she chose my friend      
McPherson my one desire was to help her to happiness. I was well            
content to stand aside and act as their go-between. Often I carried         
their messages, and it was because I was in their confidence and            
because she was so dear to me that I hastened to tell her of my             
friend's death, lest someone should forestall me in a more sudden           
and heartless manner. She would not tell you, sir, of our relations         
lest you should disapprove and I might suffer. But with your leave I        
must try to get back to The Gables, for my bed will be very welcome."       
  Stackhurst held out his hand. "Our nerves have all been at                
concert-pitch," said be. "Forgive what is past, Murdoch. We shall           
understand each other better in the future." They passed out                
together with their arms linked in friendly fashion. The inspector          
remained, staring at me in silence with his ox-like eyes.                   
  "Well, you've done it!" he cried at last. "I had read of you, but         
I never believed it. It's wonderful!"                                       
                                                            
  I was forced to shake my head. To accept such praise was to lower         
one's own standards.                                                        
  "I was slow at the outset- culpably slow. Had the body been found in      
the water I could hardly have missed it. It was the towel which misled      
me. The poor fellow had never thought to dry himself, and so I in turn      
was led to believe that he had never been in the water. Why, then,          
should the attack of any water creature suggest itself to me? That was      
where I went astray. Well, well, Inspector, I often ventured to             
chaff you gentlemen of the police force, but Cyanea capillata very          
nearly avenged Scotland Yard."                                              
                                                                           
                                                                           
                             -THE END-                                      
                                                                            
                                                                            
