ADVENTURE II. THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE


I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last
year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced,
elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was
about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the
door behind me.

"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he said
cordially.

"I was afraid that you were engaged."

"So I am. Very much so."

"Then I can wait in the next room."

"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many
of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost
use to me in yours also."

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a
quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes.

"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his
fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. "I know, my dear
Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the
conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish
for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will
excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little
adventures."

"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I observed.

"You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the
very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects
and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far
more daring than any effort of the imagination."

"A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."

"You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for
otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks
down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has
been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which
promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time.
You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very
often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and
occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime
has been committed. As far as I have heard it is impossible for me to say
whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of
events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to.
Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your
narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the
opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious
to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some
slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the
thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present
instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief,
unique."

The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride
and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his
greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust
forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the
man and endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, to read the indications
which might be presented by his dress or appearance.

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every
mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and
slow. He wore rather baggy gray shepherd's check trousers, a not over-clean
black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy
brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an
ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet
collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was
nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression
of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.

Sherlock Holmes's quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a
smile as he noticed my questioning glances. "Beyond the obvious facts that he
has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a
Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable
amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper,
but his eyes upon my companion.

"How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?" he
asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour. It's as true
as gospel, for I began as a ship's carpenter."

"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your
left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed."

"Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially
as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an arc-and-compass
breastpin."

"Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"

"What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches,
and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon
the desk?"

"Well, but China?"

"The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only
have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and have
even contributed to the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the
fishes' scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in
addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter
becomes even more simple."

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he. "I thought at first
that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it,
after all."

"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake in explaining.
'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my poor little reputation, such as
it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the
advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"

"Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red finger planted halfway
down the column. "Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it for
yourself, sir."

I took the paper from him and read as follows.

TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah
Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now another vacancy open
which entitles a member of the League to a salary of 4 pounds a week for purely
nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above
the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Appiy in person on Monday, at eleven
o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court, Fleet
Street.

"What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had twice read over the
extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high
spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?" said he. "And now,
Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself, your
household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You
will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date."

"It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago."

"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

"Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Jabez
Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small pawnbroker's business at Coburg
Square, near the City. It's not a very large affair, and of late years it has
not done more than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two
assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but that
he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the business."

"What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth, either. It's hard to
say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very
well that he could better himself and earn twice what I am able to give him.
But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?"

"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employee who comes under the
full market price. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. I
don't know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement."

"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such a fellow for
photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving his
mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to
develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but on the whole he's a good
worker. There's no vice in him."

"He is still with you, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking and
keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the house, for I am a widower and
never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a
roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.

"The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came
down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very paper in his
hand, and he says:

"'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.'

"'Why that?' I asks.

"'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed Men.
It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand that
there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their
wits' end what to do with the money. If my hair would only change color, here's
a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.'

"'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see. Mr. Holmes, I am a very
stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to
it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that
way I didn't know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad of a
bit of news.

"'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he asked with his
eyes open.

"'Never.'

"'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligibile yourself for one of the
vacancies.'

"'And what are they worth?' I asked.

"'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need
not interfere very much with one's other occupations.'

"Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the
business has not been over-good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred
would have been very handy.

"'Tell me all about it,' said I.

"'Well ' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for yourself that
the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for
particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American
millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself
red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so when he died
it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees,
with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men
whose hair is of that color. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little
to do.'

"'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.'

"'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it is really confined
to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he
was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have
heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or
anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr.
Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while
to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.'

"Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is
of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be
any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man that I had
ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he
might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day
and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we
shut the business up and started off for the address that was given us in the
advertisement.

"I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south,
east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into
the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed
folk, and Pope's Court looked like a coster's orange barrow. I should not have
thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by
that single advertisement. Every shade of color they were--straw, lemon,
orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were
not many who had the real vivid flame-colored tint. When I saw how many were
waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of
it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted
until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the
office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and
some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found
ourselves in the office."

"Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked Holmes as his
client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. "Pray
continue your very interesting statement."

"There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal
table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine.
He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed
to find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did
not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came
the little man was much more favorable to me than to any of the others, and he
closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.

"'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is willing to fill a
vacancy in the League.'

"'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He has every
requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.' He took a step
backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite
bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me
warmly on my success.

"'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will, however, I am sure,
excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.' With that he seized my hair in
both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain. 'There is water in
your eyes,' said he as he released me. 'I perceive that all is as it should be.
But we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by
paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler's wax which would disgust you with
human nature.' He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top
of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up
from below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there
was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the manager.

"'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners
upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson?
Have you a family?'

"I answered that I had not.

"His face fell immediately.

"'Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I am sorry to hear
you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the
red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that
you should be a bachelor.'

"My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have
the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few minutes he said
that it would be all right.

"'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be fatal, but we must
stretch a point in favor of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall
you be able to enter upon your new duties?'

"'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,' said I.

"'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent Spaulding. 'I should be
able to look after that for you.'

"'What would be the hours?' I asked.

"'Ten to two.'

"Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes,
especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day; so it
would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that
my assistant was a good man, and that he would see to anything that turned up.

"'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'

"'Is 4 pounds a week.'

"'And the work?'

"'Is purely nominal.'

"'What do you call purely nominal?'

"'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole
time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very
clear upon that point. You don't comply with the conditions if you budge from
the office during that time.'

"'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,' said I.

"'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither sickness nor business
nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your billet.'

"'And the work?'

"'Is to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. There is the first volume of it
in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we
provide this table and chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?'

"'Certainly,' I answered.

"'Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on
the important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain.' He bowed
me out of the room and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to
say or do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune.

"Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits
again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some
great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine. It
seemed altogether past belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they
would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the
Encyclopaedia Britannica. Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up,
but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the
morning I determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of
ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off
for Pope's Court.

"Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible. The
table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got
fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but
he would drop in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two
o'clock he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had
written, and locked the door of the office after me.

"This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in
and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week's work. It was the same
next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and
every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in
only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at all.
Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not
sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so
well, that I would not risk the loss of it.

"Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and Archery
and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might
get on to the B's before very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had
pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings. 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 card-board
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 card-board about the size of a sheet of note-paper.
It read in this fashion:

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

IS

DISSOLVED.

October 9, 1890.

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face
behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every
other consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter.

"I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our client, flushing up
to the roots of his flaming head. "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. "I really wouldn't miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly
unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little
funny about it. Pray 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 is an accountant 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 any such body. 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 was using
my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved
out yesterday.'

"'Where could I find him?'

"'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward
Street, near St. Paul's.'

"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory
of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William
Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."

"And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.

"I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my assistant. But
he could not help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited I should
hear by post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. 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 folk who were in need of it, I came right away to
you."

"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an exceedingly remarkable
one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think
that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight
appear."

"Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost four pound a week."

"As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I do not see that
you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you
are, as I understand, richer by some 30 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 endeavor 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 in his ways, no hair on his face, though he's
not short of thirty. 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. There's never very much to do of a morning."

"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the
subject in the course of a day or two. To-day 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 make of
it all?"

"I make nothing of it," 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. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really
puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. 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 and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange
bird. 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 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 to-day. My practice is never very absorbing."

"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can
have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music
on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It
is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!"

We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us
to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to
in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines
of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure,
where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel-bushes made a hard
fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and 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, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. 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 you would go from here
to the Strand."

"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant promptly, closing the door.

"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away. "He is, in my
judgment. the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that
he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him before."

"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good deal in this
mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely
in order that you might see him."

"Not him."

"What then?"

"The knees of his trousers."

"And what did you see?"

"What I expected to see."

"Why did you beat the pavement?"

"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in
an enemy's country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore
the parts which lie behind it."

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the
retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of
a picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the
traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the
immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while
the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was
difficult to realize as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately
business premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and
stagnant square which we had just quitted.

"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line,
"I should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of
mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer's, the
tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and
Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building
depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we've done
our work, so it's time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and
then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and
there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable
perfomer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the
stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin
fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid,
dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes, the sleuth-hound, Holmes the
relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to
conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted
itself, and his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often
thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which
occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from extreme
languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so truly
formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid
his improvisations and his black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of
the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power
would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with
his methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that
of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at
St. James's Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he
had set himself to hunt down.

"You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he remarked as we emerged.

"Yes, it would be as well."

"And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at
Coburg Square is serious."

"Why serious?"

"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that
we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates
matters. I shall want your help to-night."

"At what time?"

"Ten will be early enough."

"I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

"Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put
your army revolver in your pocket." He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and
disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbors, but I was always oppressed
with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I
had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his
words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what
was about to happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and
grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all,
from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the Encyclopaedia down
to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had
parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed?
Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that
this smooth-faced pawnbroker's assistant was a formidable man--a man who might
play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set
the matter aside until night should bring an explanation.

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the
Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing
at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from
above. On entering his room I found Holmes in animated conversation with two
men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while
the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and
oppressively respectable frock-coat.

"Ha! Our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his peajacket and taking
his heavy hunting crop from the rack. "Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of
Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our
companion in to-night's adventure."

"We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said Jones in his
consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase.
All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down."

"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase," observed Mr.
Merryweather gloomily.

"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the police
agent loftily. "He has his own little methods, which are, if he won't mind my
saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings
of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that
business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly
correct than the official force."

"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the stranger with
deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday
night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber."

"I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will play for a higher
stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more
exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some 30,000 pounds; and
for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands."

"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a young man, Mr.
Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have
my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He's a remarkable man, is
young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to
Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning.as his fingers, and though we meet
signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He'll
crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage
in Cornwall the next. I've been on his track for years and have never set eyes
on him yet."

"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I've had one
or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at
the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we
started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the
second."

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back
in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled
through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into
Farrington Street.

"We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow Merryweather is a
bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to
have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in
his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as
tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they
are waiting for us."

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in
the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr.
Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he
opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive
iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps,
which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light
a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so,
after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all
round with crates and massive boxes.

"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as he held up the
lantern and gazed about him.

"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags
which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!" he remarked,
looking up in surprise.

"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes severely. "You
have already imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that
you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to
interfere?"

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured
expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor and,
with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks
between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his
feet again and put his glass in his pocket.

"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they can hardly take
any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a
minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for
their escape. We are at present, Doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in the
cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr.
Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that
there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a
considerable interest in this cellar at present."

"It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have had several warnings
that an attempt might be made upon it."

"Your French gold?"

"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed
for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known
that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying
in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed
between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present
than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had
misgivings upon the subject."

"Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it is time that we
arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a
head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark
lantern."

"And sit in the dark?"

"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought
that, as we were a partie carree, you might have your rubber after all. But I
see that the enemy's preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the
presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. These are
daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us
some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you
conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in
swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down."

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I
crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in
pitch darkness--such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced.
The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there,
ready to flash out at a moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a
pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden
gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.

"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is back through the house
into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?"

"l have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."

"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait."

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a
quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone. and the
dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to
change my position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of
tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle
breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier
in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director.
From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor.
Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened
out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a
gash seemed to open and a hand appeared; a white, almost womanly hand, which
felt about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the
hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was
withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single
lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones.

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound,
one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square,
gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there
peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a
hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high,
until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of
the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself,
with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.

"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott!
Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other
dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched
at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes's
hunting crop came down on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the
stone floor.

"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You have no chance at all."

"So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness. "I fancy that my pal
is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails."

"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.

"Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment
you."

"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very new and
effective."

"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's quicker at climbing
down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies."

"I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands," remarked our
prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. "You may not be aware that
I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me
always to say 'sir' and 'please.'"

"All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger. "Well, would you please,
sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the
police-station?"

"That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three
of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.

"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the
cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no
doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of
the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my
experience."

"I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay,"
said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall
expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an
experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable
narrative of the Red-headed League."

"You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat
over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it was perfectly obvious from
the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of
the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia, must be
to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours
every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be
difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay's
ingenious mind by the color of his accomplice's hair. The 4 pounds a week was a
lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for
thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office,
the other rogue incites the man to apply for it. and together they manage to
secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the
assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some
strong motive for securing the situation."

"But how could you guess what the motive was?"

"Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar
intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man's business was a
small one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such
elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then,
be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's
fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The
cellar! There was the end of this tangled clew. Then I made inquiries as to
this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest
and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the
cellar--something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it
be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to
some other building.

"So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by
beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar
stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell,
and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we
had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His
knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn,
wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The
only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the
corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and
felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I
called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the
result that you have seen."

"And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?" I asked.

"Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no
longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence--in other words, that they had
completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as
it might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit
them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their
escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night."

"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration "It is
so long a chain, and yet every link rings true."

"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already feel it
closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the
commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so."

"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little
use," he remarked. " 'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout,' as Gustave
Flaubert wrote to George Sand."