| Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that April evening—a narrative which would have been utterly incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the ual sight of the t, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had thought to see again. In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner rather than in his words. Work is antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson, said he; and I have a piece of work for us both to-night which, if we can bring it to a ful conclusion, will in itself justify a man's on this planet. In vain I begged him to tell me more. You will hear and see enough before morning, he answered. We have three years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure of the empty house. It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the thrill of adventure in my heart. was cold and stern and silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere features, I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but I was well assured, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that the adventure was a most grave one—while the sardonic smile which occasiony broke through his hundred times more difficult than ting up. But I had no time to think of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but, by the blessing of God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path. I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence, with the certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me. I had one confidant—my brother Mycroft. I owe you many apologies, my dear Watson, but it was -important that it should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy end had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several times during the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening when you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn attention to my identity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in to obtain the which I needed. The course of events in London did not run so well as I had hoped, for the of the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous s, my own most vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for two years in Tibet, tfore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa, and spending some days with the head lama. You may have read of the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian d Sigerson, but I am sure that it occurred to you that you were receiving news of your . I then passed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum the results of which I have communicated to the Foreign ice. Returning to France, I spent some months in a research into the coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a laboratory at Montpellier, in the south of France. Having concluded this to my and learning that one of my enemies was left in London, I was about to return when my movements were hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park Lane Mystery, which not appealed to me by its own merits, but which seemed to er some most peculiar personal opportunities. I came over at once to London, ced in my own person at Baker Street, threw into violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my papers exly as they had always been. So it was, my dear Watson, that at two o'clock to-day I found myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and wishing that I could have seen my old Watson in the other chair which he has so often adorned. Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that April evening—a narrative which would have been utterly incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the ual sight of the t, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had thought to see again. In some manner he had learned of my own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner rather than in his words. Work is antidote to sorrow, my dear Watson, said he; and I have a piece of work for us both to-night which, if we can bring it to a ful conclusion, will in itself justify a man's on this planet. In vain I begged him to tell me more. You will hear and see enough before morning, he answered. We have three years of the past to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine, when we start upon the notable adventure of the empty house. It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and the thrill of adventure in my heart. was cold and stern and silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austere features, I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought and his thin lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast we were about to hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but I was well assured, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that the adventure was a most grave one—while the sardonic smile which occasiony broke through his ascetic gloom boded little good for the object of our quest. I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the utmost pains to assure that he was not followed. Our route was certainly a singular one.'s kledge of the byways of London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly and with an assured step through a network of mews and stables, the very existence of which I had kn. We emerged at last into a sm road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led us into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. he turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden gate into a deserted yard, and then ed with a key the back door of a house. We entered toher, and he closed it behind us. The place was pitch dark, but it was evident to me that it was an empty house. Our feet creaked and crackled over the bare planking, and my outstretched hand touched a w from which the paper was hanging in ribbons.'s cold, thin fingers closed round my wrist and led me forward down a long h, until I dimly saw the murky fanlight over the door. turned suddenly to the right and we found ourselves in a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the centre from the lights of the street beyond. T was no lamp near, and the window was thick with dust, so that we could just discern each other's figures within. My companion put his hand upon my shoulder and his lips close to my ear. Because I recognized their sentinel when I glanced out of my window. He is a harmless enough fellow, Parker by , a garroter by trade, and a remarkable perer upon the jew's-harp. I cared nothing for him. But I cared a for the much more idable person who was behind him, the bosom of Moriarty, the man who dropped the rocks over the cliff, the most cunning and dangerous criminal in London. That is the man who is after me to-night Watson, and that is the man who is quite unaware that we are after him. My 's plans were graduy revealing themselves. From this convenient retreat, the watchers were being watched and the trackers tracked. That angular shadow up yonder was the bait, and we were the hunters. In silence we stood toher in the darkness and watched the hurrying figures who passed and repassed in front of us. was silent and motionless; but I could tell that he was keenly alert, and that his eyes were fixed intently upon the stream of passers-by. It was a bleak and boisterous night and the wind whistled shrilly down the long street. Many people were moving to and fro, most of them muffled in their coats and cravats. Once or twice it seemed to me that I had seen the same figure before, and I especiy noticed two men who appeared to be sheltering themselves from the wind in the doorway of a house some distance up the street. I tried to draw my companion's attention to them; but he gave a little ejaculation of impatience, and continued to stare into the street. More than once he fided with his feet and tapped rapidly with his fingers upon the w. It was evident to me that he was becoming uneasy, and that his plans were not working out altoher as he had hoped. At last, as midnight approached and the street graduy cleared, he paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. I was about to make Of course it has moved, said he. Am I such a farcical bungler, Watson, that I should erect an obvious dummy, and expect that some of the sharpest men in Europe would be deceived by it? We have been in this room two hours, and has made some change in that figure eight times, or once in every quarter of an hour. She works it from the front, so that her shadow may be seen. Ah! He drew in his breath with a shrill, excited intake. In the dim light I saw his head thrown forward, his whole attitude rigid with attention. Outside the street was absolutely deserted. Those two men might still be crouching in the doorway, but I could no longer see them. was still and dark, that brilliant yellow screen in front of us with the black figure outlined upon its centre. Again in the utter silence I heard that thin, sibilant note which spoke of intense suppressed excitement. An later he pulled me back into the blackest corner of the room, and I felt his warning hand upon my lips. The fingers which clutched me were quivering. had I kn my more moved, and yet the dark street still stretched lonely and motionless before us. But suddenly I was aware of that which his keener senses had already distinguished. A low, stealthy sound came to my ears, not from the direction of Baker Street, but from the back of the very house in which we lay concealed. A door ed and shut. An later steps crept down the passage—steps which were meant to be silent, but which reverberated harshly through the empty house. crouched back against the w, and I did the same, my hand closing upon the handle of my revolver. Peering through the gloom, I saw the vague outline of a man, a shade blacker than the blackness of the door. He stood for an , and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, into the room. He was within three yards of us, this sinister figure, and I had braced myself to meet his spring, before I realized that he had no idea of our presence. He passed close beside us, stole over to the window, and very softly and noiselessly raised it for half a foot. As he sank to the level of this ing, the light of the street, no longer dimmed by the dusty glass, fell full upon his face. The man seemed to be beside himself with excitement. His two eyes shone like stars, and his features were working convulsively. He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. An opera hat was pushed to the back of his head, and an evening dress shirt-front gleamed out through his overcoat. His face was gaunt and swarthy, scored with deep, savage lines. In his hand he carried what appeared to be a stick, but as he laid it down upon the floor it gave a metic clang. Then from the pocket of his overcoat he drew a bulky object, and he busied himself in some task which ended with a loud, sharp , as if a spring or bolt had fen into its place. Still kneeling upon the floor he bent forward and threw his weight and strength upon some lever, with the result that t came a long, whirling, grinding noise, ending once more in a powerful . He straightened himself then, and I saw that what he held in his hand was a sort of gun, with a curiously misshapen butt. He ed it at the breech, put something in, and snapped the breech-lock. Then, crouching down, he rested the end of the barrel upon the ledge of the window, and I saw his long moustache droop over the stock and his eye gleam as it peered along the sights. I heard a little sigh of as he cuddled the butt into his shoulder; and saw that tar, the black man on the yellow ground, standing clear at the end of his foresight. For an he was rigid and motionless. Then his finger tightened on the trigger. T was a strange, loud whiz and a long, silvery tinkle of broken glass. At that sprang like a tiger on to the marksman's back, and hurled him flat upon his face. He was up again in a moment, and with convulsive strength he seized by the throat, but I struck him on the head with the butt of my revolver, and he dropped again upon the floor. I fell upon him, and as I held him my comrade blew a shrill c upon a whistle. T was the clatter of running feet upon the pavement, and two policemen in uni, with one plain-clothes detective, rushed through the front entrance and into the room. The man that the whole force has been seeking in vain—Colonel Sebastian Moran, who shot the Honourable Ronald Adair with an expanding bullet from an air-gun through the window of the second-floor front of No. 427 Park Lane, upon the thirtieth of last month. That's the charge, Lestrade. And , Watson, if you can endure the draught from a broken window, I think that half an hour in my study over a cigar may afford you some profitable amusement. Our old chambers had been left unchanged through the supervision of Mycroft and the immediate care of . As I entered I saw, it is true, an unted tidiness, but the old landmarks were in their place. T were the chemical corner and the acid-stained, -topped table. T upon a shelf was the row of idable scrapbooks and books of reference which many of our fellow-citizens would have been so glad to burn. The diagrams, the violin-case, and the pipe-rack— even the Persian slipper which contained the tobacco— met my eyes as I glanced round me. T were two occupants of the room—one, , who beamed upon us both as we entered— the other, the strange dummy which had played so important a part in the evening's adventures. It was a wax-coloured model of my , so admirably done that it was a facsimile. It stood on a sm pedestal table with an old dressing-gown of's so draped round it that the illusion from the street was absolutely . He had thrown the seedy frockcoat, and he was the of old in the mouse-coloured dressing-gown which he took from his effigy. The old SHIKARI'S nerves have not lost their steadiness, nor his eyes their keenness, said he, with a laugh, as he inspected the shattered forehead of his bust. Plumb in the middle of the back of the head and smack through the brain. He was shot in India, and I expect that t are few better in London. Have you heard the ? My ion of M's is a fine one, said he. Moriarty himself is enough to make any letter illustrious, and is Morgan the poisoner, and Merridew of abominable memory, and Mathews, who knocked out my left canine in the waiting-room at Charing Cross, and, finy, is our of to-night. |
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