A minute examination of the circumstances served only tomake the case more complex. In the first place, no reason couldbe given why the young man should have fastened the door uponthe inside. There was the possibility that the murderer had donethis, and had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop wasat least twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloomlay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any signof having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon thenarrow strip of grass which separated the house from the road.
Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who hadfastened the door. But how did he come by his death? No onecould have climbed up to the window without leaving traces.
Suppose a man had fired through the window, he would indeedbe a remarkable shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly awound. Again, Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare; there is acab stand within a hundred yards of the house. No one had hearda shot. And yet there was the dead man and there the revolverbullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, andso inflicted a wound which must have caused instantaneous death.
Such were the circumstances of the Park Lane Mystery, whichwere further complicated by entire absence of motive, since, as Ihave said, young Adair was not known to have any enemy, and noattempt had been made to remove the money or valuables in theroom.
All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring tohit upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to findthat line of least resistance which my poor friend had declaredto be the starting-point of every investigation. I confess that Imade little progress. In the evening I strolled across the Park, andfound myself about six o’clock at the Oxford Street end of ParkLane. A group of loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at aparticular window, directed me to the house which I had cometo see. A tall, thin man with coloured glasses, whom I stronglysuspected of being a plain-clothes detective, was pointing outsome theory of his own, while the others crowded round to listento what he said. I got as near him as I could, but his observationsseemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in some disgust.
As I did so I struck against an elderly, deformed man, who hadbeen behind me, and I knocked down several books which he wascarrying. I remember that as I picked them up, I observed thetitle of one of them, THE ORIGIN OF TREE WORSHIP, andit struck me that the fellow must be some poor bibliophile, who,either as a trade or as a hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes.
I endeavoured to apologize for the accident, but it was evidentthat these books which I had so unfortunately maltreated werevery precious objects in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl ofcontempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved back andwhite side-whiskers disappear among the throng.
My observations of No. 427 Park Lane did little to clear upthe problem in which I was interested. The house was separatedfrom the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not morethan five feet high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyoneto get into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible,since there was no waterpipe or anything which could help themost active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever, I retracedmy steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minuteswhen the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me.
To my astonishment it was none other than my strange old bookcollector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame ofwhite hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least,wedged under his right arm.
“You’re surprised to see me, sir,” said he, in a strange, croakingvoice.
I acknowledged that I was.
“Well, I’ve a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you gointo this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself,I’ll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if Iwas a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant, andthat I am much obliged to him for picking up my books.”
“You make too much of a trifle,” said I. “May I ask how youknew who I was?”
“Well, sir, if it isn’t too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours,for you’ll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street,and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself,sir. Here’s BRITISH BIRDS, and CATULLUS, and THE HOLYWAR—a bargain, every one of them. With five volumes you couldjust fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?”
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When Iturned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me acrossmy study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some secondsin utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have faintedfor the first and the last time in my life. Certainly a gray mistswirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collarendsundone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips.
Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.
“My dear Watson,” said the well-remembered voice, “I owe youa thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected.”
I gripped him by the arms.
“Holmes!” I cried. “Is it really you? Can it indeed be that youare alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of thatawful abyss?”
“Wait a moment,” said he. “Are you sure that you are reallyfit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by myunnecessarily dramatic reappearance.”
“I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe myeyes. Good heavens! to think that you—you of all men—should bestanding in my study.” Again I gripped him by the sleeve, and feltthe thin, sinewy arm beneath it. “Well, you’re not a spirit anyhow,”
said I. “My dear chap, I’m overjoyed to see you. Sit down, and tellme how you came alive out of that dreadful chasm.”