“Yes,” said he, “there is no better way of approaching it. Thesituation is desperate, but not hopeless. Even now, if we could besure which of them has taken it, it is just possible that it has notyet passed out of his hands. After all, it is a question of moneywith these fellows, and I have the British treasury behind me. Ifit’s on the market I’ll buy it—if it means another penny on theincome-tax. It is conceivable that the fellow might hold it backto see what bids come from this side before he tries his luck onthe other. There are only those three capable of playing so bolda game—there are Oberstein, La Rothiere, and Eduardo Lucas. Iwill see each of them.”
I glanced at my morning paper.
“Is that Eduardo Lucas of Godolphin Street?”
“Yes.”
“You will not see him.”
“Why not?”
“He was murdered in his house last night.”
My friend has so often astonished me in the course of ouradventures that it was with a sense of exultation that I realizedhow completely I had astonished him. He stared in amazement,and then snatched the paper from my hands. This was theparagraph which I had been engaged in reading when he rose fromhis chair.
MURDER IN WESTMINSTER
A crime of mysterious character was committed last night at 16Godolphin Street, one of the old-fashioned and secluded rows ofeighteenth century houses which lie between the river and theAbbey, almost in the shadow of the great Tower of the Houses ofParliament. This small but select mansion has been inhabited forsome years by Mr. Eduardo Lucas, well known in society circlesboth on account of his charming personality and because he has thewell-deserved reputation of being one of the best amateur tenorsin the country. Mr. Lucas is an unmarried man, thirty-four years1072 The Complete Sherlock Holmes
of age, and his establishment consists of Mrs. Pringle, an elderlyhousekeeper, and of Mitton, his valet. The former retires early andsleeps at the top of the house. The valet was out for the evening,visiting a friend at Hammersmith. From ten o’clock onward Mr.
Lucas had the house to himself. What occurred during that timehas not yet transpired, but at a quarter to twelve Police-constableBarrett, passing along Godolphin Street observed that the door ofNo. 16 was ajar. He knocked, but received no answer. Perceivinga light in the front room, he advanced into the passage and againknocked, but without reply. He then pushed open the door andentered. The room was in a state of wild disorder, the furniturebeing all swept to one side, and one chair lying on its back in thecentre. Beside this chair, and still grasping one of its legs, lay theunfortunate tenant of the house. He had been stabbed to the heartand must have died instantly. The knife with which the crime hadbeen committed was a curved Indian dagger, plucked down from atrophy of Oriental arms which adorned one of the walls. Robberydoes not appear to have been the motive of the crime, for there hadbeen no attempt to remove the valuable contents of the room. Mr.
Eduardo Lucas was so well known and popular that his violent andmysterious fate will arouse painful interest and intense sympathy ina widespread circle of friends.
“Well, Watson, what do you make of this?” asked Holmes, afterlong pause.
“It is an amazing coincidence.”
“A coincidence! Here is one of the three men whom we hadnamed as possible actors in this drama, and he meets a violentdeath during the very hours when we know that that dramawas being enacted. The odds are enormous against its beingcoincidence. No figures could express them. No, my dear Watson,the two events are connected—must be connected. It is for us tofind the connection.”
“But now the official police must know all.”
“Not at all. They know all they see at Godolphin Street. Theyknow—and shall know—nothing of Whitehall Terrace. Only weknow of both events, and can trace the relation between them.
There is one obvious point which would, in any case, have turnedmy suspicions against Lucas. Godolphin Street, Westminster,only a few minutes’ walk from Whitehall Terrace. The othersecret agents whom I have named live in the extreme West End.
was easier, therefore, for Lucas than for the others to establishconnection or receive a message from the European Secretary’shousehold—a small thing, and yet where events are compressed intofew hours it may prove essential. Halloa! what have we here?”
The Return of Sherlock Holmes 1073
Mrs. Hudson had appeared with a lady’s card upon her salver.
Holmes glanced at it, raised his eyebrows, and handed it over tome.
“Ask Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope if she will be kind enough tostep up,” said he.
A moment later our modest apartment, already so distinguishedthat morning, was further honoured by the entrance of the mostlovely woman in London. I had often heard of the beauty of theyoungest daughter of the Duke of Belminster, but no descriptionof it, and no contemplation of colourless photographs, hadprepared me for the subtle, delicate charm and the beautifulcolouring of that exquisite head. And yet as we saw it that autumnmorning, it was not its beauty which would be the first thing toimpress the observer. The cheek was lovely but it was paled withemotion, the eyes were bright but it was the brightness of fever,the sensitive mouth was tight and drawn in an effort after selfcommand.
Terror—not beauty—was what sprang first to the eyeas our fair visitor stood framed for an instant in the open door.
“Has my husband been here, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes, madam, he has been here.”
“Mr. Holmes. I implore you not to tell him that I came here.”
Holmes bowed coldly, and motioned the lady to a chair.
“Your ladyship places me in a very delicate position. I beg thatyou will sit down and tell me what you desire, but I fear that Icannot make any unconditional promise.”
