The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax - Arthur Connan Doyle
The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax
"But why Turkish?" asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes, gazing fix-
edly at my boots. I was reclining in a cane-backed chair at the
moment, and my protruded feet had attracted his ever-active
"English," I answered in some surprise. "I got them at
Latimer's, in Oxford Street."
Holmes smiled with an expression of weary patience.
"The bath!" he said; "the bath! Why the relaxing and expen-
sive Turkish rather than the invigorating home-made article?"
"Because for the last few days I have been feeling rheumatic
and old. A Turkish bath is what we call an alterative in
medicine -- a fresh starting-point, a cleanser of the system.
"By the way, Holmes," I added, "I have no doubt the
connection between my boots and a Turkish bath is a perfectly
self-evident one to a logical mind, and yet I should be obliged to
you if you would indicate it."
"The train of reasoning is not very obscure, Watson," said
Holmes with a mischievous twinkle. "It belongs to the same
elementary class of deduction which I should illustrate if I were
to ask you who shared your cab in your drive this morning."
"I don't admit that a fresh illustration is an explanation," said
I with some asperity.
"Bravo, Watson! A very dignified and logical remonstrance.
Let me see, what were the points? Take the last one first -- the
cab. You observe that you have some splashes on the left sleeve
and shoulder of your coat. Had you sat in the centre of a hansom
you would probably have had no splashes, and if you had they
would certainly have been symmetrical. Therefore it is clear that
you sat at the side. Therefore it is equally clear that you had a
"That is very evident."
"Absurdly commonplace, is it not?"
"But the boots and the bath?"
"Equally childish. You are in the habit of doing up your boots
in a certain way. I see them on this occasion fastened with an
elaborate double bow, which is not your usual method of tying
them. You have, therefore, had them off. Who has tied them? A
bootmaker -- or the boy at the bath. It is unlikely that it is the
bootmaker, since your boots are nearly new. Well, what re-
mains? The bath. Absurd, is it not? But, for all that, the Turkish
bath has served a purpose."
"What is that?"
"You say that you have had it because you need a change. Let
me suggest that you take one. How would Lausanne do, my dear
Watson -- first-class tickets and all expenses paid on a princely
"Splendid! But why?"
Holmes leaned back in his armchair and took his notebook
from his pocket.
"One of the most dangerous classes in the world," said he,
"is the drifting and friendless woman. She is the most harmless
and often the most useful of mortals, but she is the inevitable
inciter of crime in others. She is helpless. She is migratory. She
has sufficient means to take her from country to country and
from hotel to hotel. She is lost, as often as not, in a maze
of obscure pensions and boarding-houses. She is a stray chicken
in a world of foxes. When she is gobbled up she is hardly
missed. I much fear that some evil has come to the Lady Frances
I was relieved at this sudden descent from the general to the
particular. Holmes consulted his notes.
"Lady Frances," he continued, "is the sole survivor of the
direct family of the late Earl of Rufton. The estates went, as you
may remember, in the male line. She was left with limited
means, but with some very remarkable old Spanish jewellery of
silver and curiously cut diamonds to which she was fondly
attached -- too attached, for she refused to leave them with her
banker and always carried them about with her. A rather pathetic
figure, the Lady Frances, a beautiful woman, still in fresh mid-
dle age, and yet, by a strange chance, the last derelict of what
only twenty years ago was a goodly fleet."
"What has happened to her, then?"
"Ah, what has happened to the Lady Frances? Is she alive or
dead? There is our problem. She is a lady of precise habits, and
for four years it has been her invariable custom to write every
second week to Miss Dobney, her old governess, who has long
retired and lives in Camberwell. It is this Miss Dobney who has
consulted me. Nearly five weeks have passed without a word.
The last letter was from the Hotel National at Lausanne. Lady
Frances seems to have left there and given no address. The
family are anxious, and as they are exceedingly wealthy no sum
wlll be spared if we can clear the matter up."
"Is Miss Dobney the only source of information? Surely she
had other correspondents?"
"There is one correspondent who is a sure draw, Watson.
That is the bank. Single ladies must live, and their passbooks are
compressed diaries. She banks at Silvester's. I have glanced over
her account. The last check but one paid her bill at Lausanne
but it was a large one and probably left her with cash in hand.
Only one check has been drawn since."
"To whom, and where?"
"To Miss Marie Devine. There is nothing to show where
the check was drawn. It was cashed at the Credit Lyonnais
at Montpellier less than three weeks ago. The sum was fifty
"And who is Miss Marie Devine?"
"That also I have been able to discover. Miss Marie Devine
was the maid of Lady Frances Carfax. Why she should have
paid her this check we have not yet determined. I have no
doubt, however, that your researches will soon clear the matter
"Hence the health-giving expedition to Lausanne. You know
that I cannot possibly leave London while old Abrahams is in
such mortal terror of his life. Besides, on general principles it is
best that I should not leave the country. Scotland Yard feels
lonely without me, and it causes an unhealthy excitement among
the criminal classes. Go, then, my dear Watson, and if my
humble counsel can ever be valued at so extravagant a rate as
two pence a word, it waits your disposal night and day at the end
of the Continental wire."
Two days later found me at the Hotel National at Lausanne,
where I received every courtesy at the hands of M. Moser, the
well-known manager. Lady Frances, as he informed me, had
stayed there for several weeks. She had been much liked by all
who met her. Her age was not more than forty. She was still
handsome and bore every sign of having in her youth been a very
lovely woman. M. Moser knew nothing of any valuable jewellery,
but it had been remarked by the servants that the heavy trunk in
the lady's bedroom was always scrupulously locked. Marie
Devine, the maid, was as popular as her mistress. She was
actually engaged to one of the head waiters in the hotel, and
there was no difficulty in getting her address. It was 11 Rue de
Trajan, Montpellier. All this I jotted down and felt that Holmes
himself could not have been more adroit in collecting his facts.
Only one corner still remained in the shadow. No light which I
possessed could clear up the cause for the lady's sudden depar-
ture. She was very happy at Lausanne. There was every reason
to believe that she intended to remain for the season in her
luxurious rooms overlooking the lake. And yet she had left at a
single day's notice, which involved her in the useless payment of
a week's rent. Only Jules Vibart, the lover of the maid, had any
suggestion to offer. He connected the sudden departure with the
visit to the hotel a day or two before of a tall, dark, bearded
man. "Un sauvage -- un veritable sauvage!" cried Jules Vibart.
The man had rooms somewhere in the town. He had been seen
talking earnestly to Madame on the promenade by the lake. Then
he had called. She had refused to see him. He was English, but
of his name there was no record. Madame had left the place
immediately afterwards. Jules Vibart, and, what was of more
importance, Jules Vibart's sweetheart, thought that this call and
this departure were cause and effect. Only one thing Jules would
not discuss. That was the reason why Marie had left her mis-
tress. Of that he could or would say nothing. If I wished to
know, I must go to Montpellier and ask her.
So ended the first chapter of my inquiry. The second was
devoted to the place which Lady Frances Carfax had sought
when she left Lausanne. Concerning this there had been some
secrecy, which confirmed the idea that she had gone with the
intention of throwing someone off her track. Otherwise why
should not her luggage have been openly labelled for Baden?
Both she and it reached the Rhenish spa by some circuitous
route. This much I gathered from the manager of Cook's local
office. So to Baden I went, after dispatching to Holmes an
account of all my proceedings and receiving in reply a telegram
of half-humorous commendation.
At Baden the track was not difficult to follow. Lady Frances
had stayed at the Englischer Hof for a fortnight. While there she
had made the acquaintance of a Dr. Shlessinger and his wife, a
missionary from South America. Like most lonely ladies, Lady
Frances found her comfort and occupation in religion. Dr. Shles-
singer's remarkable personality, his whole-hearted devotion, and
the fact that he was recovering from a disease contracted in the
exercise of his apostolic duties affected her deeply. She had
helped Mrs. Shlessinger in the nursing of the convalescent saint.
He spent his day, as the manager described it to me, upon a
lounge-chair on the veranda, with an attendant lady upon either
side of him. He was preparing a map of the Holy Land, with
special reference to the kingdom of the Midianites, upon which
he was writing a monograph. Finally, having improved much in
health, he and his wife had returned to London, and Lady
Frances had started thither in their company. This was just three
weeks before, and the manager had heard nothing since. As to
the maid, Marie, she had gone off some days beforehand in
floods of tears, after informing the other maids that she was
leaving service forever. Dr. Shlessinger had paid the bill of the
whole party before his departure.
"By the way," said the landlord in conclusion, "you are not
the only friend of Lady Frances Carfax who is inquiring after her
just now. Only a week or so ago we had a man here upon the
"Did he give a name?" I asked.
"None; but he was an Englishman, though of an unusual
"A savage?" said I, linking my facts after the fashion of my
"Exactly. That describes him very well. He is a bulky, bearded,
sunburned fellow, who looks as if he would be more at home in
a farmers' inn than in a fashionable hotel. A hard, fierce man, I
should think, and one whom I should be sorry to offend."
Already the mystery began to define itself, as figures grow
clearer with the lifting of a fog. Here was this good and pious
lady pursued from place to place by a sinister and unrelenting
figure. She feared him, or she would not have fled from Lausanne.
He had still followed. Sooner or later he would overtake her.
Had he already overtaken her? Was that the secret of her contin-
ued silence? Could the good people who were her companions
not screen her from his violence or his blackmail? What horrible
purpose, what deep design, lay behind this long pursuit? There
was the problem which I had to solve.
To Holmes I wrote showing how rapidly and surely I had got
down to the roots of the matter. In reply I had a telegram asking
for a description of Dr. Shlessinger's left ear. Holmes's ideas of
humour are strange and occasionally offensive, so I took no
notice of his ill-timed jest -- indeed, I had already reached Mont-
pellier in my pursuit of the maid, Marie, before his message
I had no difficulty in finding the ex-servant and in learning all
that she could tell me. She was a devoted creature, who had only
left her mistress because she was sure that she was in good
hands, and because her own approaching marriage made a sepa-
ration inevitable in any case. Her mistress had, as she confessed
with distress, shown some irritability of temper towards her
during their stay in Baden, and had even questioned her once as
if she had suspicions of her honesty, and this had made the
parting easier than it would otherwise have been. Lady Frances
had given her fifty pounds as a wedding-present. Like me, Marie
viewed with deep distrust the stranger who had driven her mis-
tress from Lausanne. With her own eyes she had seen him seize
the lady's wrist with great violence on the public promenade by
the lake. He was a fierce and terrible man. She believed that it
was out of dread of him that Lady Frances had accepted the
escort of the Shlessingers to London. She had never spoken to
Marie about it, but many little signs had convinced the maid that
her mistress lived in a state of continual nervous apprehension.
So far she had got in her narrative, when suddenly she sprang
from her chair and her face was convulsed with surprise and
fear. "See!" she cried. "The miscreant follows still! There is the
very man of whom I speak."
Through the open sitting-room window I saw a huge, swarthy
man with a bristling black beard walking slowly down the centre
of the street and staring eagerly at the numbers of the houses. It
was clear that, like myself, he was on the track of the maid.
Acting upon the impulse of the moment, I rushed out and
"You are an Englishman," I said.
"What if I am?" he asked with a most villainous scowl.
"May I ask what your name is?"
"No, you may not," said he with decision.
The situation was awkward, but the most direct way is often
"Where is the Lady Frances Carfax?" I asked.
He stared at me in amazement.
"What have you done with her? Why have you pursued her? I
insist upon an answer!" said I.
The fellow gave a bellow of anger and sprang upon me like a
tiger. I have held my own in many a struggle, but the man had a
grip of iron and the fury of a fiend. His hand was on my throat
and my senses were nearly gone before an unshaven French
ouvrier in a blue blouse darted out from a cabaret opposite, with
a cudgel in his hand, and struck my assailant a sharp crack over
the forearm, which made him leave go his hold. He stood for an
instant fuming with rage and uncertain whether he should not
renew his attack. Then, with a snarl of anger, he left me and
entered the cottage from which I had just come. I turned to thank
my preserver, who stood beside me in the roadway.
"Well, Watson," said he, "a very pretty hash you have made
of it! I rather think you had better come back with me to London
by the night express."
An hour afterwards, Sherlock Holmes, in his usual garb and
style, was seated in my private room at the hotel. His explana-
tion of his sudden and opportune appearance was simplicity
itself, for, finding that he could get away from London, he
determined to head me off at the next obvious point of my
travels. In the disguise of a workingman he had sat in the
cabaret waiting for my appearance.
"And a singularly consistent investigation you have made, my
dear Watson," said he. "I cannot at the moment recall any
possible blunder which you have omitted. The total effect of
your proceeding has been to give the alarm everywhere and yet
to discover nothing."
"Perhaps you would have done no better," I answered bitterly.
"There is no 'perhaps' about it. I have done better. Here is the
Hon. Philip Green, who is a fellow-lodger with you in this hotel,
and we may find him the starting-point for a more successful
A card had come up on a salver, and it was followed by the
same bearded ruffian who had attacked me in the street. He
started when he saw me.
"What is this, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "I had your note and
I have come. But what has this man to do with the matter?"
"This is my old friend and associate, Dr. Watson, who is
helping us in this affair."
The stranger held out a huge, sunburned hand, with a few
words of apology.
"I hope I didn't harm you. When you accused me of hurting her
I lost my grip of myself. Indeed, I'm not responsible in these
days. My nerves are like live wires. But this situation is beyond
me. What I want to know, in the first place, Mr. Holmes, is,
how in the world you came to hear of my existence at all."
"I am in touch with Miss Dobney, Lady Frances's governess."
"Old Susan Dobney with the mob cap! I remember her well."
"And she remembers you. It was in the days before -- before
you found it better to go to South Africa."
"Ah, I see you know my whole story. I need hide nothing
from you. I swear to you, Mr. Holmes, that there never was in
this world a man who loved a woman with a more wholehearted
love than I had for Frances. I was a wild youngster, I know --
not worse than others of my class. But her mind was pure as
snow. She could not bear a shadow of coarseness. So, when she
came to hear of things that I had done, she would bave no more
to say to me. And yet she loved me -- that is the wonder of
it! -- loved me well enough to remain single all her sainted days
just for my sake alone. When the years had passed and I had
made my money at Barberton I thought perhaps I could seek her
out and soften her. I had heard that she was still unmarried. I
found her at Lausanne and tried all I knew. She weakened, I
think, but her will was strong, and when next I called she had
left the town. I traced her to Baden, and then after a time heard
that her maid was here. I'm a rough fellow, fresh from a rough
life, and when Dr. Watson spoke to me as he did I lost hold of
myself for a moment. But for God's sake tell me what has
become of the Lady Frances."
"That is for us to find out," said Sherlock Holmes with
peculiar gravity. "What is your London address, Mr. Green?"
"The Langham Hotel will find me."
"Then may I recommend that you return there and be on hand
in case I should want you? I have no desire to encourage false
hopes, but you may rest assured that all that can be done will be
done for the safety of Lady Frances. I can say no more for the
instant. I will leave you this card so that you may be able to keep
in touch with us. Now, Watson, if you will pack your bag I will
cable to Mrs. Hudson to make one of her best efforts for two
hungry travellers at 7:30 to-morrow."
A telegram was awaiting us when we reached our Baker Street
rooms, which Holmes read with an exclamation of interest and
threw across to me. "Jagged or torn," was the message, and the
place of origin, Baden.
"What is this?" I asked.
"It is everything," Holmes answered. "You may remember
my seemingly irrelevant question as to this clerical gentleman's
left ear. You did not answer it."
"I had left Baden and could not inquire."
"Exactly. For this reason I sent a duplicate to the manager of
the Englischer Hof, whose answer lies here."
"What does it show?"
"It shows, my dear Watson, that we are dealing with an
exceptionally astute and dangerous man. The Rev. Dr. Shlessinger,
missionary from South America, is none other than Holy Peters,
one of the most unscrupulous rascals that Australia has ever
evolved -- and for a young country it has turned out some very
finished types. His particular specialty is the beguiling of lonely
ladies by playing upon their religious feelings, and his so-called
wife, an Englishwoman named Fraser, is a worthy helpmate.
The nature of his tactics suggested his identity to me, and this
physical peculiarity -- he was badly bitten in a saloon-fight at
Adelaide in '89 -- confirmed my suspicion. This poor lady is in
the hands of a most infernal couple, who will stick at nothing,
Watson. That she is already dead is a very likely supposition. If
not, she is undoubtedly in some sort of confinement and unable
to write to Miss Dobney or her other friends. It is always
possible that she never reached London, or that she has passed
through it, but the former is improbable, as, with their system of
registration, it is not easy for foreigners to play tricks with the
Continental police; and the latter is also unlikely, as these rogues
could not hope to find any other place where it would be as easy
to keep a person under restraint. All my instincts tell me that she
is in London, but as we have at present no possible means of
telling where, we can only take the obvious steps, eat our dinner,
and possess our souls in patience. Later in the evening I will
stroll down and have a word with friend Lestrade at Scotland
But neither the official police nor Holmes's own small but
very efficient organization sufficed to clear away the mystery.
Amid the crowded millions of London the three persons we
sought were as completely obliterated as if they had never lived.
Advertisements were tried, and failed. Clues were followed, and
led to nothing. Every criminal resort which Shlessinger might
frequent was drawn in vain. His old associates were watched
but they kept clear of him. And then suddenly, after a week of
helpless suspense, there came a flash of light. A silver-and-
brilliant pendant of old Spanish design had been pawned at
Bovington's, in Westminster Road. The pawner was a large
clean-shaven man of clerical appearance. His name and address
were demonstrably false. The ear had escaped notice, but the
description was surely that of Shlessinger.
Three times had our bearded friend from the Langham called
for news -- the third time within an hour of this fresh develop-
ment. His clothes were getting looser on his great body. He
seemed to be wilting away in his anxiety. "If you will only give
me something to do!" was his constant wail. At last Holmes
could oblige him.
"He has begun to pawn the jewels. We should get him now."
"But does this mean that any harm has befallen the Lady
Holmes shook his head very gravely.
"Supposing that they have held her prisoner up to now, it is
clear that they cannot let her loose without their own destruction.
We must prepare for the worst."
"What can I do?"
"These people do not know you by sight?"
"It is possible that he will go to some other pawnbroker in the
future. In that case, we must begin again. On the other hand, he
has had a fair price and no questions asked, so if he is in need of
ready-money he will probably come back to Bovington's. I will
give you a note to them, and they will let you wait in the shop. If
the fellow comes you will follow him home. But no indiscretion
and, above all, no violence. I put you on your honour that you
will take no step without my knowledge and consent."
For two days the Hon. Philip Green (he was, I may mention
the son of the famous admiral of that name who commanded the
Sea of Azof fleet in the Crimean War) brought us no news. On
the evening of the third he rushed into our sitting-room, pale,
trembling, with every muscle of his powerful frame quivering
"We have him! We have him!" he cried.
He was incoherent in his agitation. Holmes soothed him with a
few words and thrust him into an armchair.
"Come, now, give us the order of events," said he.
"She came only an hour ago. It was the wife, this time, but
the pendant she brought was the fellow of the other. She is a tall,
pale woman, with ferret eyes."
"That is the lady," said Holmes.
"She left the office and I followed her. She walked up the
Kennington Road, and I kept behind her. Presently she went into
a shop. Mr. Holmes, it was an undertaker's."
My companion started. "Well?" he asked in that vibrant
voice which told of the fiery soul behind the cold gray face.
"She was talking to the woman behind the counter. I entered
as well. 'It is late,' I heard her say, or words to that effect. The
woman was excusing herself. 'It should be there before now,'
she answered. 'It took longer, being out of the ordinary.' They
both stopped and looked at me, so I asked some question and
then left the shop."
"You did excellently well. What happened next?"
"The woman came out, but I had hid myself in a doorway.
Her suspicions had been aroused, I think, for she looked round
her. Then she called a cab and got in. I was lucky enough to get
another and so to follow her. She got down at last at No. 36
Poultney Square, Brixton. I drove past, left my cab at the corner
of the square, and watched the house."
"Did you see anyone?"
"The windows were all in darkness save one on the lower
floor. The blind was down, and I could not see in. I was
standing there, wondering what I should do next, when a cov-
ered van drove up with two men in it. They descended, took
something out of the van, and carried it up the steps to the hall
door. Mr. Holmes, it was a coffin."
"For an instant I was on the point of rushing in. The door had
been opened to admit the men and their burden. It was the
woman who had opened it. But as I stood there she caught a
glimpse of me, and I think that she recognized me. I saw her
start, and she hastily closed the door. I remembered my promise
to you, and here I am."
"You have done excellent work," said Holmes, scribbling a
few words upon a half-sheet of paper. "We can do nothing legal
without a warrant, and you can serve the cause best by taking
this note down to the authorities and getting one. There may be
some difficulty, but I should think that the sale of the jewellery
should be sufficient. Lestrade will see to all details."
"But they may murder her in the meanwhile. What could the
coffin mean, and for whom could it be but for her?"
"We will do all that can be done, Mr. Green. Not a moment
will be lost. Leave it in our hands. Now, Watson," he added as
our client hurried away, "he will set the regular forces on the
move. We are, as usual, the irregulars, and we must take our
own line of action. The situation strikes me as so desperate that
the most extreme measures are justified. Not a moment is to be
lost in getting to Poultney Square.
"Let us try to reconstruct the situation," said he as we drove
swiftly past the Houses of Parliament and over Westminster
Bridge. "These villains have coaxed this unhappy lady to Lon-
don, after first alienating her from her faithful maid. If she has
written any letters they have been intercepted. Through some
confederate they have engaged a furnished house. Once inside it,
they have made her a prisoner, and they have become possessed
of the valuable jewellery which has been their object from the
first. Already they have begun to sell part of it, which seems safe
enough to them, since they have no reason to think that anyone
is interested in the lady's fate. When she is released she will, of
course, denounce them. Therefore, she must not be released. But
they cannot keep her under lock and key forever. So murder is
their only solution."
"That seems very clear."
"Now we will take another line of reasoning. When you
follow two separate chains of thought, Watson, you will find
some point of intersection which should approximate to the truth.
We will start now, not from the lady but from the coffin and
argue backward. That incident proves, I fear, beyond all doubt
that the lady is dead. It points also to an orthodox burial with
proper accompaniment of medical certificate and official sanc-
tion. Had the lady been obviously murdered, they would have
buried her in a hole in the back garden. But here all is open and
regular. What does that mean? Surely that they have done her to
death in some way which has deceived the doctor and simulated
a natural end -- poisoning, perhaps. And yet how strange that they
should ever let a doctor approach her unless he were a confeder-
ate, which is hardly a credible proposition."
"Could they have forged a medical certificate?"
"Dangerous, Watson, very dangerous. No, I hardly see them
doing that. Pull up, cabby! This is evidently the undertaker's, for
we have just passed the pawnbroker's. Would you go in, Wat-
son? Your appearance inspires confidence. Ask what hour the
Poultney Square funeral takes place to-morrow."
The woman in the shop answered me without hesitation that it
was to be at eight o'clock in the morning. "You see, Watson, no
mystery; everything aboveboard! In some way the legal forms
have undoubtedly been complied with, and they think that they
have little to fear. Well, there's nothing for it now but a direct
frontal attack. Are you armed?"
"Well, well, we shall be strong enough. 'Thrice is he armed
who hath his quarrel just.' We simply can't afford to wait for the
police or to keep within the four corners of the law. You can
drive off, cabby. Now, Watson, we'll just take our luck to-
gether, as we have occasionally done in the past."
He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in the
centre of Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and the
figure of a tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.
"Well, what do you want?" she asked sharply, peering at us
through the darkness.
"I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger," said Holmes.
"There is no such person here," she answered, and tried to
close the door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.
"Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he
may call himself," said Holmes firmly.
She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. "Well, come
in!" said she. "My husband is not afraid to face any man in the
world." She closed the door behind us and showed us into a
sitting-room on the right side of the hall, turning up the gas as
she left us. "Mr. Peters will be with you in an instant," she
Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to look
around the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we found
ourselves before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven bald-
headed man stepped lightly into the room. He had a large red
face, with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of superficial
benevolence which was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.
"There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen," he said in
an unctuous, make-everything-easy voice. "I fancy that you
have been misdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down the
"That will do; we have no time to waste," said my compan-
ion firmly. "You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev.
Dr. Shlessinger, of Baden and South America. I am as sure of
that as that my own name is Sherlock Holmes."
Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at
his formidable pursuer. "I guess your name does not frighten
me, Mr. Holmes," said he coolly. "When a man's conscience
is easy you can't rattle him. What is your business in my
"I want to know what you have done with the Lady Frances
Carfax, whom you brought away with you from Baden."
"I'd be very glad if you could tell me where that lady may
be," Peters answered coolly. "I've a bill against her for nearly a
hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple of
trumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look at. She
attached herself to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden -- it is a fact that
I was using another name at the time -- and she stuck on to us
until we came to London. I paid her bill and her ticket. Once in
London, she gave us the slip, and, as I say, left these out-of-date
jewels to pay her bills. You find her, Mr. Holmes, and I'm your
"I mean to find her," said Sherlock Holmes. "I'm going
through this house till I do find her."
"Where is your warrant?"
Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. "This will have
to serve till a better one comes."
"Why, you are a common burglar."
"So you might describe me," said Holmes cheerfully. "My
companion is also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are
going through your house."
Our opponent opened the door.
"Fetch a policeman, Annie!" said he. There was a whisk of
feminine skirts down the passage, and the hall door was opened
"Our time is limited, Watson," said Holmes. "If you try to
stop us, Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that
coffin which was brought into your house?"
"What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a
body in it."
"I must see that body."
"Never with my consent."
"Then without it." With a quick movement Holmes pushed
the fellow to one side and passed into the hall. A door half
opened stood immediately before us. We entered. It was the
dining-room. On the table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin
was lying. Holmes turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep
down in the recesses of the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The
glare from the lights above beat down upon an aged and withered
face. By no possible process of cruelty, starvation, or disease
could this worn-out wreck be the still beautiful Lady Frances.
Holmes's face showed his amazement, and also his relief.
"Thank God!" he muttered. "It's someone else."
"Ah, you've blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,"
said Peters, who had followed us into the room.
"Who is this dead woman?"
"Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my
wife's, Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton
Workhouse Infirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr.
Horsom, of 13 Firbank Villas -- mind you take the address, Mr.
Holmes -- and had her carefully tended, as Christian folk should.
On the third day she died -- certificate says senile decay -- but
that's only the doctor's opinion, and of course you know better.
We ordered her funeral to be carried out by Stimson and Co., of
the Kennington Road, who will bury her at eight o'clock to-
morrow morning. Can you pick any hole in that, Mr. Holmes?
You've made a silly blunder, and you may as well own up to it.
I'd give something for a photograph of your gaping, staring face
when you pulled aside that lid expecting to see the Lady Frances
Carfax and only found a poor old woman of ninety."
Holmes's expression was as impassive as ever under the jeers
of his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acute
"I am going through your house," said he.
"Are you, though!" cried Peters as a woman's voice and
heavy steps sounded in the passage. "We'll soon see about that.
This way, officers, if you please. These men have forced their
way into my house, and I cannot get rid of them. Help me to put
A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes
drew his card from his case.
"This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson."
"Bless you, sir, we know you very well," said the sergeant,
"but you can't stay here without a warrant."
"Of course not. I quite understand that."
"Arrest him!" cried Peters.
"We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he is
wanted," said the sergeant majestically, "but you'll have to go,
"Yes, Watson, we shall have to go."
A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes was
as cool as ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. The
sergeant had followed us.
"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that's the law."
"Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise."
"I expect there was good reason for your presence there. If
there is anything I can do --"
"It's a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that
house. I expect a warrant presently."
"Then I'll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If any-
thing comes along, I will surely let you know."
It was only nine o'clock, and we were off full cry upon the
trail at once. First we drove to Brixton Workhouse Infirmary,
where we found that it was indeed the truth that a charitable
couple had called-some days before, that they had claimed an
imbecile old woman as a former servant, and that they had
obtained permission to take her away with them. No surprise was
expressed at the news that she had since died.
The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had
found the woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her
pass away, and had signed the certificate in due form. "I assure
you that everything was perfectly normal and there was no room
for foul play in the matter," said he. Nothing in the house had
struck him as suspicious save that for people of their class it was
remarkable that they should have no servant. So far and no
farther went the doctor.
Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had been
difficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay
was inevitable. The magistrate's signature might not be obtained
until next morning. If Holmes would call about nine he could go
down with Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended the day,
save that near midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say
that he had seen flickering lights here and there in the windows
of the great dark house, but that no one had left it and none
had entered. We could but pray for patience and wait for the
Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and too
restless for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy, dark
brows knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers tapping
upon the arms of his chair, as he turned over in his mind every
possible solution of the mystery. Several times in the course of
the night I heard him prowling about the house. Finally, just
after I had been called in the morning, he rushed into my room.
He was in his dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-eyed face told
me that his night had been a sleepless one.
"What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?" he asked
eagerly. "Well, it is 7:20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has
become of any brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick!
It's life or death -- a hundred chances on death to one on life. I'll
never forgive myself, never, if we are too late!"
Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a
hansom down Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to
eight as we passed Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down
the Brixton Road. But others were late as well as we. Ten
minutes after the hour the hearse was still standing at the door of
the house, and even as our foaming horse came to a halt the
coffin, supported by three men, appeared on the threshold. Holmes
darted forward and barred their way.
"Take it back!" he cried, laying his hand on the breast of the
foremost. "Take it back this instant!"
"What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where is
your warrant?" shouted the furious Peters, his big red face
glaring over the farther erid of the coffin.
"The warrant is on its way. This coffin shall remain in the
house until it comes."
The authority in Holmes's voice had its effect upon the bear-
ers. Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they
obeyed these new orders. "Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a
screw-driver!" he shouted as the coffin was replaced upon the
table. "Here's one for you, my man! A sovereign if the lid
comes off in a minute! Ask no questions -- work away! That's
good! Another! And another! Now pull all together! It's giving!
It's giving! Ah, that does it at last."
With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did so
there came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smell
of chloroform. A body lay within, its head all wreathed in
cotton-wool, which had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes
plucked it off and disclosed the statuesque face of a hand-
some and spiritual woman of middle age. In an instant he had
passed his arm round the figure and raised her to a sitting
"Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not
For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actual
suffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloro-
form, the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of
recall. And then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected
ether, with every device that science could suggest, some flutter
of life, some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a mirror,
spoke of the slowly returning life. A cab had driven up, and
Holmes, parting the blind, looked out at it. "Here is Lestrade
with his warrant," said he. "He will find that his birds have
flown. And here," he added as a heavy step hurried along the
passage, "is someone who has a better right to nurse this lady than
we have. Good morning, Mr. Green; I think that the sooner we
can move the Lady Frances the better. Meanwhile, the funeral
may proceed, and the poor old woman who still lies in that
coffin may go to her last resting-place alone."
"Should you care to add the case to your annals, my dear
Watson," said Holmes that evening, "it can only be as an
example of that temporary eclipse to which even the best-balanced
mind may be exposed. Such slips are common to all mortals,
and the greatest is he who can recognize and repair them. To this
modified credit I may, perhaps, make some claim. My night was
haunted by the thought that somewhere a clue, a strange sen-
tence, a curious observation, had come under my notice and had
been too easily dismissed. Then, suddenly, in the gray of the
morning, the words came back to me. It was the remark of the
undertaker's wife, as reported by Philip Green. She had said, 'It
should be there before now. It took longer, being out of the
ordinary.' It was the coffin of which she spoke. It had been out
of the ordinary. That could only mean that it had been made to
some special measurement. But why? Why? Then in an instant I
remembered the deep sides, and the little wasted figure at the
bottom. Why so large a coffin for so small a body? To leave
room for another body. Both would be buried under the one
certificate. It had all been so clear, if only my own sight had not
been dimmed. At eight the Lady Frances would be buried. Our
one chance was to stop the coffin before it left the house.
"It was a desperate chance that we might find her alive, but it
was a chance, as the result showed. These people had never, to
my knowledge, done a murder. They might shrink from actual
violence at the last. They could bury her with no sign of how she
met her end, and even if she were exhumed there was a chance
for them. I hoped that such considerations might prevail with
them. You can reconstruct the scene well enough. You saw the
horrible den upstairs, where the poor lady had been kept so
long. They rushed in and overpowered her with their chloro-
form, carried her down, poured more into the coffin to insure
against her waking, and then screwed down the lid. A clever
device, Watson. It is new to me in the annals of crime. If
our ex-missionary friends escape the clutches of Lestrade, I
shall expect to hear of some brilliant incidents in their future