“There is really so little to tell. I have no doubt that wickedSusan had planned an entrance for them. They must have knownthe house to an inch. I was conscious for a moment of thechloroform rag which was thrust over my mouth, but I have nonotion how long I may have been senseless. When I woke, oneman was at the bedside and another was rising with a bundle in hishand from among my son’s baggage, which was partially openedand littered over the floor. Before he could get away I sprang upand seized him.”
“You took a big risk,” said the inspector.
“I clung to him, but he shook me off, and the other may havestruck me, for I can remember no more. Mary the maid heard thenoise and began screaming out of the window. That brought thepolice, but the rascals had got away.”
“What did they take?”
“Well, I don’t think there is anything of value missing. I am surethere was nothing in my son’s trunks.”
“Did the men leave no clue?”
1294 The Complete Sherlock Holmes
“There was one sheet of paper which I may have torn from theman that I grasped. It was lying all crumpled on the floor. It is inmy son’s handwriting.”
“Which means that it is not of much use,” said the inspector.
Now if it had been in the burglar’s——”
“Exactly,” said Holmes. “What rugged common sense! None theless, I should be curious to see it.”
The inspector drew a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocketbook.
“I never pass anything, however trifling,” said he with somepomposity. “That is my advice to you, Mr. Holmes. In twentyfiveyears’ experience I have learned my lesson. There is always thechance of finger-marks or something.”
Holmes inspected the sheet of paper.
“What do you make of it, Inspector?”
“Seems to be the end of some queer novel, so far as I can see.”
“It may certainly prove to be the end of a queer tale,” saidHolmes. “You have noticed the number on the top of the page. is two hundred and forty-five. Where are the odd two hundredand forty-four pages?”
“Well, I suppose the burglars got those. Much good may it dothem!”
“It seems a queer thing to break into a house in order to stealsuch papers as that. Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?”
“Yes, sir, it suggests that in their hurry the rascals just grabbedat what came first to hand. I wish them joy of what they got.”
“Why should they go to my son’s things?” asked Mrs. Maberley.
“Well, they found nothing valuable downstairs, so they triedtheir luck upstairs. That is how I read it. What do you make of it,Mr. Holmes?”
“I must think it over, Inspector. Come to the window, Watson.”
Then, as we stood together, he read over the fragment of paper. Itbegan in the middle of a sentence and ran like this:
“. . . face bled considerably from the cuts and blows, but it wasnothing to the bleeding of his heart as he saw that lovely face,the face for which he had been prepared to sacrifice his very life,looking out at his agony and humiliation. She smiled—yes, byHeaven! she smiled, like the heartless fiend she was, as he looked upat her. It was at that moment that love died and hate was born. Manmust live for something. If it is not for your embrace, my lady, thenit shall surely be for your undoing and my complete revenge.”
“Queer grammar!” said Holmes with a smile as he handed thepaper back to the inspector. “Did you notice how the ‘he’ suddenlychanged to ‘my’ ? The writer was so carried away by his own storythat he imagined himself at the supreme moment to be the hero.”
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“It seemed mighty poor stuff,” said the inspector as he replacedit in his book. “What! are you off, Mr. Holmes?”
“I don’t think there is anything more for me to do now that thecase is in such capable hands. By the way, Mrs. Maberley, did yousay you wished to travel?”
“It has always been my dream, Mr. Holmes.”
“Where would you like to go—Cairo, Madeira, the Riviera?”
“Oh if I had the money I would go round the world.”
“Quite so. Round the world. Well, good-morning. I may dropyou a line in the evening.” As we passed the window I caught aglimpse of the inspector’s smile and shake of the head. “Theseclever fellows have always a touch of madness.” That was what Iread in the inspector’s smile.
“Now, Watson, we are at the last lap of our little journey,” saidHolmes when we were back in the roar of central London oncemore. “I think we had best clear the matter up at once, and itwould be well that you should come with me, for it is safer to havea witness when you are dealing with such a lady as Isadora Klein.”
We had taken a cab and were speeding to some address inGrosvenor Square. Holmes had been sunk in thought, but heroused himself suddenly.
“By the way, Watson, I suppose you see it all clearly?”
“No, I can’t say that I do. I only gather that we are going to seethe lady who is behind all this mischief.”
“Exactly! But does the name Isadora Klein convey nothing toyou? She was, of course, the celebrated beauty. There was nevera woman to touch her. She is pure Spanish, the real blood of themasterful Conquistadors, and her people have been leaders inPernambuco for generations. She married the aged German sugarking, Klein, and presently found herself the richest as well asthe most lovely widow upon earth. Then there was an interval ofadventure when she pleased her own tastes. She had several lovers,and Douglas Maberley, one of the most striking men in London,was one of them. It was by all accounts more than an adventurewith him. He was not a society butterfly but a strong, proud manwho gave and expected all. But she is the ‘belle dame sans merci of fiction. When her caprice is satisfied the matter is ended, and ifthe other party in the matter can’t take her word for it she knowshow to bring it home to him.”
“Then that was his own story—”
“Ah! you are piecing it together now. I hear that she is about tomarry the young Duke of Lomond, who might almost be her son.
His Grace’s ma might overlook the age, but a big scandal would bea different matter, so it is imperative—Ah! here we are.”
