“In your own case,” said I, “from all that you have told me, itseems obvious that your faculty of observation and your peculiarfacility for deduction are due to your own systematic training.”
“To some extent,” he answered, thoughtfully. “My ancestorswere country squires, who appear to have led much the same lifeas is natural to their class. But, none the less, my turn that way isin my veins, and may have come with my grandmother, who wasthe sister of Vernet, the French artist. Art in the blood is liable totake the strangest forms.”
“But how do you know that it is hereditary?”
“Because my brother Mycroft possesses it in a larger degreethan I do.”
This was news to me indeed. If there were another man withsuch singular powers in England, how was it that neither policenor public had heard of him? I put the question, with a hint thatit was my companion’s modesty which made him acknowledge hisbrother as his superior. Holmes laughed at my suggestion.
“My dear Watson,” said he, “I cannot agree with those who rankmodesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should beseen exactly as they are, and to underestimate one’s self is as mucha departure from truth as to exaggerate one’s own powers. When Isay, therefore, that Mycroft has better powers of observation thanI, you may take it that I am speaking the exact and literal truth.”
“Is he your junior?”
“Seven years my senior.”
“How comes it that he is unknown?”
“Oh, he is very well known in his own circle.”
“Where, then?”
“Well, in the Diogenes Club, for example.”
I had never heard of the institution, and my face must haveproclaimed as much, for Sherlock Holmes pulled out his watch.
“The Diogenes Club is the queerest club in London, andMycroft one of the queerest men. He’s always there from quarterto five to twenty to eight. It’s six now, so if you care for a stroll thisbeautiful evening I shall be very happy to introduce you to twocuriosities.”
Five minutes later we were in the street, walking towardsRegent’s Circus.
“You wonder,” said my companion, “why it is that Mycroft doesnot use his powers for detective work. He is incapable of it.”
“But I thought you said——”
“I said that he was my superior in observation and deduction.
If the art of the detective began and ended in reasoning from anarmchair, my brother would be the greatest criminal agent thatever lived. But he has no ambition and no energy. He will not evengo out of his way to verify his own solutions, and would rather beconsidered wrong than take the trouble to prove himself right.
Again and again I have taken a problem to him, and have receivedan explanation which has afterwards proved to be the correct one.
And yet he was absolutely incapable of working out the practicalpoints which must be gone into before a case could be laid beforea judge or jury.”
“It is not his profession, then?”
“By no means. What is to me a means of livelihood is to himthe merest hobby of a dilettante. He has an extraordinary facultyfor figures, and audits the books in some of the governmentdepartments. Mycroft lodges in Pall Mall, and he walks roundthe corner into Whitehall every morning and back every evening.
From year’s end to year’s end he takes no other exercise, and isseen nowhere else, except only in the Diogenes Club, which is justopposite his rooms.”
“I cannot recall the name.”
“Very likely not. There are many men in London, you know, who,some from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for thecompany of their fellows. Yet they are not averse to comfortablechairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of thesethat the Diogenes Club was started, and it now contains the mostunsociable and unclubable men in town. No member is permittedto take the least notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger’sRoom, no talking is, under any circumstances, allowed, and threeoffences, if brought to the notice of the committee, render thetalker liable to expulsion. My brother was one of the founders, andI have myself found it a very soothing atmosphere.”
We had reached Pall Mall as we talked, and were walking downit from the St. James’s end. Sherlock Holmes stopped at a doorsome little distance from the Carlton, and, cautioning me not tospeak, he led the way into the hall. Through the glass panelingI caught a glimpse of a large and luxurious room, in which aconsiderable number of men were sitting about and readingpapers, each in his own little nook. Holmes showed me into asmall chamber which looked out into Pall Mall, and then, leavingme for a minute, he came back with a companion whom I knewcould only be his brother.
Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man thanSherlock. His body was absolutely corpulent, but his face, thoughmassive, had preserved something of the sharpness of expressionwhich was so remarkable in that of his brother. His eyes, whichwere of a peculiarly light, watery gray, seemed to always retainthat far-away, introspective look which I had only observed inSherlock’s when he was exerting his full powers.
“I am glad to meet you, sir,” said he, putting out a broad, fathand like the flipper of a seal. “I hear of Sherlock everywhere sinceyou became his chronicler. By the way, Sherlock, I expected to seeyou round last week, to consult me over that Manor House case. Ithought you might be a little out of your depth.”
“No, I solved it,” said my friend, smiling.
“It was Adams, of course.”
“Yes, it was Adams.”
“I was sure of it from the first.” The two sat down together inthe bow-window of the club. “To any one who wishes to studymankind this is the spot,” said Mycroft. “Look at the magnificenttypes! Look at these two men who are coming towards us, forexample.”
“The billiard-marker and the other?”
“Precisely. What do you make of the other?”
The two men had stopped opposite the window. Some chalkmarks over the waistcoat pocket were the only signs of billiardswhich I could see in one of them. The other was a very small, darkfellow, with his hat pushed back and several packages under hisarm.