ELECBOOK CLASSICS
THE ADVENTURES
OF SHERLOCK
HOLMES
Arthur Conan Doyle
ELECBOOK CLASSICS
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The Adventures of
Sherlock Holmes
Arthur Conan Doyle
Arthur Conan Doyle
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Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
9
Contents
Click on number to go to page
Project Gutenberg Etexts ......................................................................3
Adventure I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA ........................................10
Adventure II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE..................................42
Adventure III. A CASE OF IDENTITY .............................................73
Adventure IV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY................96
Adventure V. THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS.......................................128
Adventure VI. THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP.................153
Adventure VII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE
CARBUNCLE......................................................................................184
Adventure VIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE
SPECKLED BAND ............................................................................211
Adventure IX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE
ENGINEER’S THUMB......................................................................244
Adventure 10. THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE
BACHELOR ........................................................................................272
Adventure XI. THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL
CORONET ...........................................................................................300
Adventure XII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER
BEECHES............................................................................................332
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Adventure I. A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA
I.
o Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom
heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes
she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was
not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All
emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold,
precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most
perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen,
but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He
never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer.
They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for
drawing the veil from men’s motives and actions. But for the
trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate
and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting
factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit
in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power
lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a
nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and
that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable
memory.
I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us
away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the
home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first
finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to
absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of
society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in
T
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Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from
week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of
the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was
still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied
his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in
following out those clews, and clearing up those mysteries which
had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time
to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons
to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of
the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and
finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and
successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs
of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers
of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and
companion.
One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was
returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to
civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I
passed the well-remembered door, which must always be
associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark
incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to
see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his
extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I
looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark
silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly,
eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped
behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his
attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again.
He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the
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scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to
the chamber which had formerly been in part my own.
His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I
think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye,
he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and
indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood
before the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective
fashion.
“Wedlock suits you,” he remarked. “I think, Watson, that you
have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you.”
“Seven!” I answered.
“Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more,
I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell
me that you intended to go into harness.”
“Then, how do you know?”
“I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting
yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and
careless servant girl?”
“My dear Holmes,” said I, “this is too much. You would
certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is
true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a
dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can’t imagine
how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my
wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you
work it out.”
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands
together.
“It is simplicity itself,” said he; “my eyes tell me that on the
inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the
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leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have
been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round
the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it.
Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile
weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting
specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman
walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of
nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right
side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope,
I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active
member of the medical profession.”
I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained
his process of deduction. “When I hear you give your reasons,” I
remarked, “the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously
simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive
instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your
process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours.”
“Quite so,” he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself
down into an armchair. “You see, but you do not observe. The
distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the
steps which lead up from the hall to this room.”
“Frequently.”
“How often?”
“Well, some hundreds of times.”
“Then how many are there?”
“How many? I don’t know.”
“Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That
is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps,
because I have both seen and observed. By-the-way, since you are
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interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough
to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be
interested in this.” He threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted
note-paper which had been lying open upon the table. “It came by
the last post,” said he. “Read it aloud.”
The note was undated, and without either signature or address.
“There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight
o’clock,” it said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a
matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of
the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may
safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which
can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all
quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do
not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask.
“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine
that it means?”
“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorize before one
has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories,
instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you
deduce from it?”
I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it
was written.
“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I
remarked, endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes.
“Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is
peculiarly strong and stiff.”
“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an
English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”
I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large
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“G” with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper.
“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.
“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”
“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’
which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction
like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’
Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a
heavy brown volume from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we
are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not
far from Carlsbad. ‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death of
Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’
Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and
he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette.
“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.
“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do
you note the peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account
of you we have from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or
Russian could not have written that. It is the German who is so
uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover
what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper
and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he
comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.”
As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and
grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the
bell. Holmes whistled.
“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing
out of the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties.
A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case,
Watson, if there is nothing else.”
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“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”
“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my
Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to
miss it.”
“But your client—”
“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here
he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best
attention.”
A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs
and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then
there was a loud and authoritative tap.
“Come in!” said Holmes.
A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet
six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His
dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked
upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed
across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the
deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined
with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch
which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended
halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with
rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence
which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a
broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper
part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black
vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment,
for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower
part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with
a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of
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resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.
“You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a
strongly marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He
looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to
address.
“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and
colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me
in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?”
“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian
nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man
of honour and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the
most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to
communicate with you alone.”
I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me
back into my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say
before this gentleman anything which you may say to me.”
The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,”
said he, “by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at
the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At
present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may
have an influence upon European history.”
“I promise,” said Holmes.
“And I.”
“You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor.
“The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be
unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which
I have just called myself is not exactly my own.”
“I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly.
“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution
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has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense
scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of
Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of
Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia.”
“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself
down in his armchair and closing his eyes.
Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,
lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to
him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in
Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently
at his gigantic client.
“If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he
remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.”
The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the
room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of
desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the
ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I
attempt to conceal it?”
“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not
spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm
Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of CasselFelstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.”
“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting
down once more and passing his hand over his high white
forehead, “you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing
such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate
that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his
power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of
consulting you.”
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“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.
“The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a
lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the wellknown adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to
you.”
“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes
without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a
system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so
that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he
could not at once furnish information. In this case I found her
biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that
of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the
deep-sea fishes.
“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the
year 1858. Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial
Opera of Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in
London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became
entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising
letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back.”
“Precisely so. But how—”
“Was there a secret marriage?”
“None.”
“No legal papers or certificates?”
“None.”
“Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should
produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she
to prove their authenticity?”
“There is the writing.”
“Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”
Arthur Conan Doyle
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