dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come.
“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots, and Archery, and Armour, and Architecture, and Attica. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.”
“To an end?”
“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself.”
He held up a piece of white cardboard, about the size of a sheet of notepaper. It read in this fashion: —
“The Red-headed League is dissolved. Oct. 9, 1890.”
Sherlock Holmes and I burst out into a roar of laughter.
“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client. “If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen. “There is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. What steps did you take when you found the card upon the door?”
“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who was living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of it. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him.
“’Well,’ said I, ’the gentleman at No. 4.’
“’What, the red-headed man?’
“’Yes.’
“’Oh,’ said he, ’his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor, and he moved out yesterday.’
“’Where could I find him?’
“’Oh, at his new offices. He told me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.’
“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address, no one there had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris, or Mr. Duncan Ross.”
“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.
“I went home. But my assistant could not help me in any way. But I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor people, I came right away to you.”
“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is a remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. But as far as you are personally concerned, I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some thirty pounds, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them.”
“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was in playing this prank-if it was a prank-upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds.”
“We shall try to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement-how long had he been with you?”
“About a month then.”
“How did he come?”
“In answer to an advertisement.”
“Was he the only applicant?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because he was handy, and would come cheap.”
“At half wages, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”
“Small, stout-built, very quick, no hair on his face, though he’s about thirty. He has a white splash of acid upon his forehead.”
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement.
“I thought as much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?”
“Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he was a lad.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still with you?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”
“And has your business been attended to in your absence?”
“Nothing to complain of, sir.”
“So, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. Today is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes, when our visitor had left us, “what do you think?”
“Nothing,” I answered, frankly. “It is a most mysterious business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. But I must be prompt over this matter.”
“What are you going to do then?” I asked.
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.”
He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind, and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.
“Sarasate[1] plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he remarked. “What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?”
“I have nothing to do today.”
“Then, put on your hat, and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way.”
Coburg Square was a poky, little place with four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses, a lawn of weedy grass, and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes. A brown board with “Jabez Wilson” in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side, and looked it all over. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how
Sarasate – Сарасате
