“If, then, Mortimer Tregennis disappeared from the scene,and yet some outside person affected the cardplayers, how canwe reconstruct that person, and how was such an impression ofhorror conveyed? Mrs. Porter may be eliminated. She is evidentlyharmless. Is there any evidence that someone crept up to thegarden window and in some manner produced so terrific aneffect that he drove those who saw it out of their senses? Theonly suggestion in this direction comes from Mortimer Tregennishimself, who says that his brother spoke about some movementin the garden. That is certainly remarkable, as the night was rainy,cloudy, and dark. Anyone who had the design to alarm thesepeople would be compelled to place his very face against theglass before he could be seen. There is a three-foot flower-borderoutside this window, but no indication of a footmark. It is difficultto imagine, then, how an outsider could have made so terrible animpression upon the company, nor have we found any possiblemotive for so strange and elaborate an attempt. You perceive ourdifficulties, Watson?”
“They are only too clear,” I answered with conviction.
“And yet, with a little more material, we may prove that theyare not insurmountable,” said Holmes. “I fancy that among yourextensive archives, Watson, you may find some which were nearlyas obscure. Meanwhile, we shall put the case aside until moreaccurate data are available, and devote the rest of our morning tothe pursuit of neolithic man.”
I may have commented upon my friend’s power of mentaldetachment, but never have I wondered at it more than upon thatspring morning in Cornwall when for two hours he discoursedupon Celts, arrowheads, and shards, as lightly as if no sinistermystery were waiting for his solution. It was not until we hadreturned in the afternoon to our cottage that we found a visitorawaiting us, who soon brought our minds back to the matter inhand. Neither of us needed to be told who that visitor was. Thehuge body, the craggy and deeply seamed face with the fierce eyes1208 The Complete Sherlock Holmes
and hawk-like nose, the grizzled hair which nearly brushed ourcottage ceiling, the beard—golden at the fringes and white nearthe lips, save for the nicotine stain from his perpetual cigar—allthese were as well known in London as in Africa, and couldonly be associated with the tremendous personality of Dr. LeonSterndale, the great lion-hunter and explorer.
We had heard of his presence in the district and had once ortwice caught sight of his tall figure upon the moorland paths. Hemade no advances to us, however, nor would we have dreamedof doing so to him, as it was well known that it was his love ofseclusion which caused him to spend the greater part of theintervals between his journeys in a small bungalow buried in thelonely wood of Beauchamp Arriance. Here, amid his books andhis maps, he lived an absolutely lonely life, attending to his ownsimple wants and paying little apparent heed to the affairs of hisneighbours. It was a surprise to me, therefore, to hear him askingHolmes in an eager voice whether he had made any advance in hisreconstruction of this mysterious episode. “The county police areutterly at fault,” said he, “but perhaps your wider experience hassuggested some conceivable explanation. My only claim to beingtaken into your confidence is that during my many residences herehave come to know this family of Tregennis very well—indeed,upon my Cornish mother’s side I could call them cousins—andtheir strange fate has naturally been a great shock to me. I may tellyou that I had got as far as Plymouth upon my way to Africa, butthe news reached me this morning, and I came straight back againto help in the inquiry.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
“Did you lose your boat through it?”
“I will take the next.”
“Dear me! that is friendship indeed.”
“I tell you they were relatives.”
“Quite so—cousins of your mother. Was your baggage aboardthe ship?”
“Some of it, but the main part at the hotel.”
“I see. But surely this event could not have found its way intothe Plymouth morning papers.”
“No, sir; I had a telegram.”
“Might I ask from whom?”
A shadow passed over the gaunt face of the explorer.
“You are very inquisitive, Mr. Holmes.”
“It is my business.”
With an effort Dr. Sterndale recovered his ruffled composure.
“I have no objection to telling you,” he said. “It was Mr.
Roundhay, the vicar, who sent me the telegram which recalled me.”
The Adventure of Wisteria Lodge 1209
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “I may say in answer to youroriginal question that I have not cleared my mind entirely on thesubject of this case, but that I have every hope of reaching someconclusion. It would be premature to say more.”
“Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions pointin any particular direction?”
“No, I can hardly answer that.”
“Then I have wasted my time and need not prolong my visit.”
The famous doctor strode out of our cottage in considerable illhumour,and within five minutes Holmes had followed him. I sawhim no more until the evening, when he returned with a slow stepand haggard face which assured me that he had made no greatprogress with his investigation. He glanced at a telegram whichawaited him and threw it into the grate.
“From the Plymouth hotel, Watson,” he said. “I learned thename of it from the vicar, and I wired to make certain that Dr.
Leon Sterndale’s account was true. It appears that he did indeedspend last night there, and that he has actually allowed some of hisbaggage to go on to Africa, while he returned to be present at thisinvestigation. What do you make of that, Watson?”
“He is deeply interested.”
“Deeply interested—yes. There is a thread here which we hadnot yet grasped and which might lead us through the tangle.
Cheer up, Watson, for I am very sure that our material has not yetall come to hand. When it does we may soon leave our difficultiesbehind us.”
