“That is what Mr. Hilton Cubitt, of Riding Thorpe Manor,Norfolk, is very anxious to know. This little conundrum came by thefirst post, and he was to follow by the next train. There’s a ring at thebell, Watson. I should not be very much surprised if this were he.”
A heavy step was heard upon the stairs, and an instant laterthere entered a tall, ruddy, clean-shaven gentleman, whose cleareyes and florid cheeks told of a life led far from the fogs of BakerStreet. He seemed to bring a whiff of his strong, fresh, bracing,east-coast air with him as he entered. Having shaken hands witheach of us, he was about to sit down, when his eye rested upon thepaper with the curious markings, which I had just examined andleft upon the table.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, what do you make of these?” he cried. “Theytold me that you were fond of queer mysteries, and I don’t thinkyou can find a queerer one than that. I sent the paper on ahead, sothat you might have time to study it before I came.”
“It is certainly rather a curious production,” said Holmes. “Atfirst sight it would appear to be some childish prank. It consistsof a number of absurd little figures dancing across the paper uponwhich they are drawn. Why should you attribute any importanceto so grotesque an object?”
“I never should, Mr. Holmes. But my wife does. It is frighteningher to death. She says nothing, but I can see terror in her eyes.
That’s why I want to sift the matter to the bottom.”
Holmes held up the paper so that the sunlight shone full uponit. It was a page torn from a notebook. The markings were done inpencil, and ran in this way:
Holmes examined it for some time, and then, folding it carefullyup, he placed it in his pocketbook.
“This promises to be a most interesting and unusual case,”
said he. “You gave me a few particulars in your letter, Mr. HiltonCubitt, but I should be very much obliged if you would kindly goover it all again for the benefit of my friend, Dr. Watson.”
“I’m not much of a story-teller,” said our visitor, nervouslyclasping and unclasping his great, strong hands. “You’ll just askme anything that I don’t make clear. I’ll begin at the time of mymarriage last year, but I want to say first of all that, though I’m nota rich man, my people have been at Riding Thorpe for a matter offive centuries, and there is no better known family in the Countyof Norfolk. Last year I came up to London for the Jubilee, and Istopped at a boarding-house in Russell Square, because Parker, thevicar of our parish, was staying in it. There was an American younglady there—Patrick was the name—Elsie Patrick. In some way webecame friends, until before my month was up I was as much inlove as man could be. We were quietly married at a registry office,and we returned to Norfolk a wedded couple. You’ll think it verymad, Mr. Holmes, that a man of a good old family should marry awife in this fashion, knowing nothing of her past or of her people,but if you saw her and knew her, it would help you to understand.
“She was very straight about it, was Elsie. I can’t say that shedid not give me every chance of getting out of it if I wished to doso. ‘I have had some very disagreeable associations in my life,’ saidshe, ‘I wish to forget all about them. I would rather never alludeto the past, for it is very painful to me. If you take me, Hilton, youwill take a woman who has nothing that she need be personallyashamed of, but you will have to be content with my word for it,and to allow me to be silent as to all that passed up to the timewhen I became yours. If these conditions are too hard, then goback to Norfolk, and leave me to the lonely life in which youfound me.’ It was only the day before our wedding that she saidthose very words to me. I told her that I was content to take heron her own terms, and I have been as good as my word.
“Well we have been married now for a year, and very happy wehave been. But about a month ago, at the end of June, I saw for thefirst time signs of trouble. One day my wife received a letter fromAmerica. I saw the American stamp. She turned deadly white,read the letter, and threw it into the fire. She made no allusion toit afterwards, and I made none, for a promise is a promise, but shehas never known an easy hour from that moment. There is alwaysa look of fear upon her face—a look as if she were waiting andexpecting. She would do better to trust me. She would find that Iwas her best friend. But until she speaks, I can say nothing. Mindyou, she is a truthful woman, Mr. Holmes, and whatever troublethere may have been in her past life it has been no fault of hers. Iam only a simple Norfolk squire, but there is not a man in Englandwho ranks his family honour more highly than I do. She knows itwell, and she knew it well before she married me. She would neverbring any stain upon it—of that I am sure.
“Well, now I come to the queer part of my story. About a weekago—it was the Tuesday of last week—I found on one of thewindow-sills a number of absurd little dancing figures like theseupon the paper. They were scrawled with chalk. I thought thatit was the stable-boy who had drawn them, but the lad swore heknew nothing about it. Anyhow, they had come there during thenight. I had them washed out, and I only mentioned the matter tomy wife afterwards. To my surprise, she took it very seriously, andbegged me if any more came to let her see them. None did comefor a week, and then yesterday morning I found this paper lyingon the sundial in the garden. I showed it to Elsie, and down shedropped in a dead faint. Since then she has looked like a womanin a dream, half dazed, and with terror always lurking in her eyes.
It was then that I wrote and sent the paper to you, Mr. Holmes.
It was not a thing that I could take to the police, for they wouldhave laughed at me, but you will tell me what to do. I am not arich man, but if there is any danger threatening my little woman, Iwould spend my last copper to shield her.”