“I thought no more of the matter until the vicar’s telegramreached me at Plymouth. This villain had thought that I wouldbe at sea before the news could reach me, and that I should belost for years in Africa. But I returned at once. Of course, I couldnot listen to the details without feeling assured that my poisonhad been used. I came round to see you on the chance that someother explanation had suggested itself to you. But there could benone. I was convinced that Mortimer Tregennis was the murderer;that for the sake of money, and with the idea, perhaps, that ifthe other members of his family were all insane he would be thesole guardian of their joint property, he had used the devil’s-footpowder upon them, driven two of them out of their senses, andkilled his sister Brenda, the one human being whom I have everloved or who has ever loved me. There was his crime; what was tobe his punishment?
“Should I appeal to the law? Where were my proofs? I knewthat the facts were true, but could I help to make a jury ofcountrymen believe so fantastic a story? I might or I might not.
But I could not afford to fail. My soul cried out for revenge. I havesaid to you once before, Mr. Holmes, that I have spent much ofmy life outside the law, and that I have come at last to be a lawto myself. So it was now. I determined that the fate which he hadgiven to others should be shared by himself. Either that or I woulddo justice upon him with my own hand. In all England there canbe no man who sets less value upon his own life than I do at thepresent moment.
“Now I have told you all. You have yourself supplied the rest. Idid, as you say, after a restless night, set off early from my cottage.
I foresaw the difficulty of arousing him, so I gathered some gravelfrom the pile which you have mentioned, and I used it to throwup to his window. He came down and admitted me through thewindow of the sitting-room. I laid his offence before him. I toldhim that I had come both as judge and executioner. The wretchsank into a chair, paralyzed at the sight of my revolver. I lit thelamp, put the powder above it, and stood outside the window,ready to carry out my threat to shoot him should he try to leavethe room. In five minutes he died. My God! how he died! But myheart was flint, for he endured nothing which my innocent darlinghad not felt before him. There is my story, Mr. Holmes. Perhaps,if you loved a woman, you would have done as much yourself. Atany rate, I am in your hands. You can take what steps you like. AsI have already said, there is no man living who can fear death lessthan I do.”
Holmes sat for some little time in silence.
“What were your plans?” he asked at last.
“I had intended to bury myself in central Africa. My work thereis but half finished.”
“Go and do the other half,” said Holmes. “I, at least, am notprepared to prevent you.”
Dr. Sterndale raised his giant figure, bowed gravely, and walkedfrom the arbour. Holmes lit his pipe and handed me his pouch.
“Some fumes which are not poisonous would be a welcomechange,” said he. “I think you must agree, Watson, that it is nota case in which we are called upon to interfere. Our investigationhas been independent, and our action shall be so also. You wouldnot denounce the man?”
“Certainly not,” I answered.
“I have never loved, Watson, but if I did and if the woman Iloved had met such an end, I might act even as our lawless lionhunterhas done. Who knows? Well, Watson, I will not offendyour intelligence by explaining what is obvious. The gravel uponthe window-sill was, of course, the starting-point of my research.
It was unlike anything in the vicarage garden. Only when myattention had been drawn to Dr. Sterndale and his cottage did Ifind its counterpart. The lamp shining in broad daylight and theremains of powder upon the shield were successive links in a fairlyobvious chain. And now, my dear Watson, I think we may dismissthe matter from our mind and go back with a clear conscience tothe study of those Chaldean roots which are surely to be traced inthe Cornish branch of the great Celtic speech.”
His Last Bow
An Epilogue of Sherlock Holmes
It was nine o’clock at night upon the second of August—themost terrible August in the history of the world. One might havethought already that God’s curse hung heavy over a degenerateworld, for there was an awesome hush and a feeling of vagueexpectancy in the sultry and stagnant air. The sun had long set, butone blood-red gash like an open wound lay low in the distant west.
Above, the stars were shining brightly, and below, the lights of theshipping glimmered in the bay. The two famous Germans stoodbeside the stone parapet of the garden walk, with the long, low,heavily gabled house behind them, and they looked down uponthe broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the great chalk cliff onwhich Von Bork, like some wandering eagle, had perched himselffour years before. They stood with their heads close together,talking in low, confidential tones. From below the two glowingends of their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes of somemalignant fiend looking down in the darkness.
A remarkable man this Von Bork—a man who could hardly bematched among all the devoted agents of the Kaiser. It was histalents which had first recommended him for the English mission,the most important mission of all, but since he had taken it overthose talents had become more and more manifest to the halfdozenpeople in the world who were really in touch with the truth.
One of these was his present companion, Baron Von Herling, thechief secretary of the legation, whose huge 100-horse-power Benzcar was blocking the country lane as it waited to waft its ownerback to London.