Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Adventure of the Speckled Band"

Hello, everyone, and welcome to another edition of Cal Poly Pomona University Library's Summertime Reads series. Today, we are going to delve into the illustrious career of the most famous detective that never actually existed, the one, the only, Sherlock Holmes, by reading The Adventure of the Speckled Band by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. To start with, let's talk just briefly about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He was born in 1859 in Edinburgh, Scotland, and was trained as a medical doctor, though he found his greatest success in writing short stories. He based his most famous creation, the detective Sherlock Holmes, on a former university professor of his, Dr. Joseph Bell, who was renowned for being able to diagnose people and tell details about their lives by just observing them. While Holmes is Arthur Conan Doyle's most famous creation, he is not his only creation. He wrote on a variety of other topics, including some fantasy and some horror short stories. But Holmes remained his biggest seller, and the public was always wanting more of the great detective, something that at times Doyle did actually resent a little. Following his career as a writer, Doyle was also a journalist who covered the First World War for the British papers, and as he lost one of his sons in that conflict, he then became a serious devotee of spiritualism. He spent the last years of his life advocating for his new faith and writing strong defenses of spiritualism in the British press. Our story today is The Adventure of the Speckled Band, which was first published in Strand Magazine in February of 1892. So without any further ado, we are proud to present The Adventure of the Speckled Band. On glancing over my notes of the seventy-odd cases in which I have, during the last eight years, studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, and a large number of merely strange, but none commonplace. For, working as he did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation which did not tend toward the unusual and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roilats of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been freed during the last month, by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is perhaps well that the fact should now come to light, for I have reason to know that there are widespread rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimsby Roilat, which tend to make the matter even more terrible than the truth. It was early in April in the year eighty-three that I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter past seven, I blinked up at him with some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits. ''Very sorry to knock you up, Watson,'' he said, ''but it's the common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, and she retorted upon me, and I upon you.'' ''What is it, then? A fire?'' ''No, a client. It seems some young lady has arrived in a considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they may have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you, and give you the chance. My dear fellow, I wouldn't miss it for anything.'' I had no keener pleasure than following Holmes in his professional investigations, and in admiring their rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always found it on a logical basis, with which he unraveled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes, and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A lady, dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered. ''Good morning, madam,'' said Holmes cheerily. ''My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray drop to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering.'' ''It is not the cold that makes me shiver,'' said the woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested. ''What then?'' ''It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror.'' She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless, frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances. ''You must not fear,'' he said soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. ''We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come by train this morning, I see. You know me, then?'' ''No, but I observed the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you have had a good drive in a dog-cart along heavy roads before you reached the station.'' The lady gave a violent start, and stared in bewilderment at my companion. ''There is no mystery, dear madam,'' he said, smiling. ''The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart, which throws up mud in that way, and only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver.'' ''Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct,'' said she. ''I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo.'' ''Sir,'' I could stand the strain no longer, ''I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to, none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I have heard of you from Miss Ferintosh, whom you helped in the hour of your sore need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think you could come help me too, and at least throw a little light on the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married, with control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful.'' Holmes turned to his desk, and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, in which he consulted. ''Ferintosh,'' said he, ''ah, yes, I recall the case. It was concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson, I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own reward. But you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg you that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter.'' ''Alas,'' replied our visitor, ''the very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that even he to whom, of all others, I have a right to look for help and advice, looks upon all that I tell him about it as fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickednesses of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me. I am all attention, madam. My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the roylots of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey.'' Holmes nodded his head. ''The name is familiar to me,'' said he. ''The family was at one time the richest in England, and the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper. But his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative which enabled him to take a medical degree, and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment, and afterwards escaped to England a morose and disappointed man. When Dr. Roylott was in India, he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of a major general, Stoner, of the Bengal artillery. My sister Julie and I were twins. We were the only two years old at the time of my mother's remarriage. She had a considerable sum of money, not less than a thousand pounds a year, and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely, while we resided with him, with the provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return to England, my mother died. She was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself and practice in London, and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother was left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness. But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time. Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in his old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper approaching mania has been hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather's case it had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police court, until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger. Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather together that I was able to avoid another public exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gypsies, and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp on the few acres of our bramble-covered land which represent the family estate, and he would accept in return the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at the moment a cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the villagers almost as much as their master. You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julie and I had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even as mine has. Your sister is dead, then. She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden sister, Miss Honoria Westphale, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady's house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister returned, and offered no objection to the marriage, but within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, a terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion. Sherlock Holmes had been leaning in his chair with his eyes closed, and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and glanced across at his visitor. Pray be precise as to the details, said he. It is easy for me to be so, for every event of the dreadful time is seared into my memory. The manor house is, as I have already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott's, the second my sister's, and the third my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open out onto the same corridor. Do I make myself plain? Perfectly so. The windows of the three rooms open out onto the lawn. That fateful night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o'clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back. ''Tell me, Helen,'' she said, ''have you ever heard anyone whistle in the dead of night?'' ''Never,'' said I. ''I suppose you could not possibly whistle yourself in your sleep?'' ''Certainly not. But why?'' ''Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from, perhaps from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you whether you had heard it?'' ''No, I have not. It must be those red gypsies in the plantation.'' ''Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did not hear it also.'' ''Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.'' ''Well, it is of no great consequence at any rate.'' She smiled back at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the lock. ''Indeed,'' said Holmes. ''Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in at night?'' ''Always. And why?'' ''I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked.'' ''Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement.'' I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely allied? It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister's voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my door, I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a clinging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the passage, my sister's door was unlocked and revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor lamp, I saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms around her, but at that moment her knees seemed to give way, and she fell to the ground. She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought she had not recognized me, but as I bent over her, she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never forget, Oh my God, Helen, it was the band, the speckled band! There was something else which she would have feigned had said, and she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the doctor's room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and met him hastening from his room in his dressing gown. When he reached my sister's side, she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister. One moment, said Holmes, are you sure about this whistle and the metallic sound? Could you swear to it? That was what the country coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale and the creaking of the old house, I may possibly have been deceived. Was your sister dressed? No, she was in her nightdress. In her right hand was found the charred stump of a match, and in her left a matchbox, showing that she had struck a light, and looked about her when the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come to? He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roiland's conduct had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite solid all around, and the flooring was also carefully examined, with the same result. The chimney is wide, but barred up by four large staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her. How about poison? The doctors examined her for it, but without success. What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then? It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine. Were there gypsies in the plantation at the time? Yes, there are nearly always some there. Ah, and what did you gather to this illusion of a band, a speckled band? Sometimes I thought it was merely the wild talk of delirium. Sometimes that it might have referred to some band of people, perhaps to these very gypsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she used. Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied. These are deep waters, said he. Pray go on with your narrative. Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage, Percy Armitage, second son to Mr. Armitage of Crane Water near Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced so that I have had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in which she slept. Imagine then my thrill of terror when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead. From whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing you and seeking your advice. You have done wisely, said my friend, but have you told me all? Yes, all. Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather. Why, what do you mean? For answer, Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the hand which lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed on the white wrist. You have been cruelly used, said Holmes. The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. He is a hard man, she said, and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength. There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his hands and stared into the crackling fire. This is a very deep business, he said at last. There are a thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to Stoke-Moran today, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather? As it happens, he spoke of coming into town today upon some of the most important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way. Excellent. You are not averse to the trip, Watson. By no means. Then we shall both come. What are you going to do with yourself? I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in town, but I shall return by the twelve o'clock train so as to be there in time for your coming, and you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait in breakfast? No, I must go. My heart has lightened already since I have confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon. She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided from the room. And what do you think of it all, Watson? asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair. It seems to me a most dark and sinister business, dark enough and sinister enough. Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her sister must have undoubtedly been alone when she met her mysterious end. What then becomes of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very peculiar words of the dying woman? I cannot think. When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a band of gypsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the fact that we have every reason to believe the doctor has an interest in preventing his stepdaughter's marriage, the dying allusion to a band, and finally the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines. But what then did the gypsies do? I cannot imagine. I see many objections to any such theory, and so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to Stoke-Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal, or whether they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil? The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door had suddenly been dashed open, and that a huge man had framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having a black top hat, a long frock coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that the hat actually brushed the crossbar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes and high, thin, fleshless nose gave him somewhat the resemblance of a fierce old bird of prey. Which one of you is Holmes? asked the apparition. My name, sir, but you have the advantage of me, said my companion gravely. I am Dr. Grimsley Roy Cotlott of Stoke-Moran. Indeed, doctor, said Holmes blandly. Pray, take a seat. I will do nothing of the kind. My step-daughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you? It is a little cold for this time of the year, said Holmes. What has she been saying to you? screamed the old man furiously. But I have heard that the crocuses promise well, continued my companion imperturbably. Ah, you put me off, do you? said our new visitor, taking a step forward and shaking his hunting crop. I know you, you scoundrel. I have heard of you before. You are old Holmes, the middler. My friend smiled. Holmes, the busybody. His smile broadened. Holmes, the Scotland Yard jack-in-office. Holmes chuckled heartily. Your conversation is most entertaining, said he. When you go out, close the door, for there is a decided draft. I will go when I have had my say. Don't you dare meddle with my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her. I am a dangerous man to foul follow, love. See here. He stepped swiftly forward, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands. See that you keep yourself out of my grip, he snarled, and hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace, he strode out of the room. He seems a very amiable person, said Holmes, laughing. I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained, I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own. And as he spoke, he picked up the steel poker, and with a sudden effort, straightened it out again. Fancy having the insolence to confound me with the official detective force. This incident gives zest to our investigation, however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from her impudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast. And afterwards, I shall walk down to Doctor's Commons, where I hope to get some data which will help in this matter. It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over with notes and figures. I have seen the will of the deceased wife, said he. To determine its exact meaning, I have been obliged to work out the present prices of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which, at the time of the wife's death, was little short of 1,100 pounds, is now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than 750 pounds. Each daughter can claim an income of 250 pounds in case of marriage. It is evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very serious extent. My morning's work has not been wasted, since it has been proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting ourselves in his affairs. So if you are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket, and Ellie's number two is an excellent argument with a gentleman who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a toothbrush are, I think, all that we will need. At Waterloo, we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead, where we hired the trap at the station inn and drove for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with the bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees in the wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me, at least, there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows. Look there, said he. A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out the grey gables and high-roofed tree of an old mansion. Stoke Moran, said he. Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimsley Royalot, remarked the driver. There is some building going on there, said Holmes. That is where we are going. There's the village, said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs some distance to the left. But if you want to get to the house, you'll find a shorter way over this stile. And so by the footpath over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking. And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner, observed Holmes, shading his eyes. Yes, I think we'd better do as you suggest. We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to Leatherhead. I thought it as well, said Holmes, as we climbed the stile, that this willow should think we had come here as architects or on some definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word. Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face which spoke a joy. I have been waiting so eagerly for you, she cried, shaking hands with us warmly. All has been turned out splendidly. Dr. Royalot has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back before evening. We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's acquaintance, said Holmes. And in a few words, he sketched out what had happened. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened. Good heaven, she cried, he has followed me then. So it appears. He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will he say when he returns? He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him tonight. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt's at Harrow. Now we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms, which we are to examine. The building was of gray, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on each side. In one of these wings, the windows were broken and blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke curling up from its chimney, showed that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected against the end wall, and the stonework had been broken into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn, and examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows. This, I take, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the center one to your sister's, and the one next to the main building, to Dr. Roylott's chamber? Exactly so, but I am now sleeping in the middle one, pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not seem to be any pressing need for repairs at that end wall. There were none. I believe it was an excuse to move me from my room. Ah, that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing runs the corridor from which these three rooms opened. There are windows in it, of course, yes, but very small ones, too narrow for anyone to pass through. As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room and bar your shutters? Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the open window, endeavored in every way to force the shutter open, but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be passed to raise the bar. Then, with his lens, he tested the hinges, that they were a solid iron built firmly into the mass of masonry. Hmm, said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity. My theory certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the matter. A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so he passed it once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now sleeping, and in which her sister had met her fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow white counterpane to bed in another, and a dressing table upon the left-hand side of the window. These articles, with two small wickerwork chairs, made up all the furniture in the room, save for a square of Wilton carpet in the center. The boards around the paneling of the walls were of brown worm-eaten oak, so old and discolored that it may have dated from the original building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs up into a corner and sat silent, while his eyes traveled round and round and up and down, taking in every detail of the apartment. Where does that bell communicate with? he asked at last, pointing to a thick bell rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually lying upon the pillow. It goes to the housekeeper's room. It looks newer than the other things. Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago. Your sister asked for it, I suppose? No, I never heard of her using it. We used to always get what we wanted for ourselves. Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell pull there. You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this floor. He threw himself down on his face with his lens in his hand and crawled swiftly back and forth, examining minutely the cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with the woodwork with which the chamber was paneled. Finally, he walked over to the bed and spent some time in staring at it and running his eye up and down the wall. Finally, he took the bell rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug. Why, it's a dummy, said he. Won't it ring? No, it's not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You can see it now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little opening for the ventilator is. How very absurd, I never noticed that before. Very strange, muttered Holmes. Pulling at the rope, there are one or two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool the builder must be to open a ventilator into another room when, with the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air. That is also quite modern, said the lady. Done about the same time as the bell rope, remarked Holmes. Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time. They seem to be of a most interesting character, dummy bell ropes and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researchers into the inner apartment. Dr. Grimsby Roilette's chamber was larger than that of his stepdaughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp bed, a small wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair beside the bed were the principal things which met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the keenest interest. What's in here, he asked, tapping a safe. My stepfather's business papers. Oh, you've seen inside, then? Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers. There isn't a cat in it, for example. No, what a strange idea. Well, look at this. He took up a small saucer of milk which stood upon the top of it. No, we don't keep a cat, but there is a cheetah and a baboon. Ah, yes, of course. Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I dare say. There is one point which I wish to determine. He squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the greatest attention. Thank you, that is quite settled, he said he. Rising and putting his lens in his pocket. Hello, here's something interesting. The object which caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied so as to make a loop of the whipcord. What do you make of that, Watson? It's a common enough lash, but I don't know why it should be tied. That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me, it's a wicked world in which a clever man turns his brains to crime. It is the worst of all. I think that I've seen enough now, Miss Stoner. With your permission, we shall walk out upon the lawn. I had never seen my friend's face so grim or his brow so dark as when we turned from the scene of his investigation. We had walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner or myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his reverie. It is very essential, Miss Stoner, said he, that you should absolutely follow my advice in every respect. I shall most certainly do so. The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend upon your compliance. I assure you that I am in your hands. In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your room. Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment. Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that this is the village inn over there? Yes, that is the crown. Very good. Your windows would be visible from there? Certainly. You must confine yourself to your room on pretense of a headache when your stepfather comes back. Then, when you hear him retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly, with everything which you are likely to want, into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one night. Oh yes, easily. The rest you will leave in our hands. But what will you do? We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the cause of this noise which has disturbed you. I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your minds, Miss Stoner, laying your hand upon my companion's sleeve. Perhaps I have. Then, for pity's sake, tell me, what was the cause of my sister's death? I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak. You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she died from some sudden fright. No, I do not think so. I think there was probably some more tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you. But if Dr. Roiland returned and saw us, our journey would be in vain. Goodbye, and be brave. For if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you. Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and sitting room at the crime scene. They were on the upper floor, and from our window, we could command a view of the avenue gate and of the inhabited wing of Stokemore and Manor House. At dusk, we saw Dr. Grimsley Roiland drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the doctor's voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clenched fists at him. The trap drove on, and in a few minutes, we saw the sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting rooms. Do you know, Watson, said Holmes, as we sat together in the gathering darkness, I really have some scruples as to taking you tonight. There is a distinct element of danger. Can I be of assistance? Your presence might be invaluable. Then I shall certainly come. It is very kind of you. You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than was visible to me. No, but I fancy that I have deduced a little more. I imagine that you saw all that I did. I saw nothing remarkable, save the bell rope, and what purpose that could answer, I confess, is more than I can imagine. You saw the ventilator, too? Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a small opening between two rooms. It was so, so small. It was so small that a rat could hardly pass through. I knew that we should find a ventilator before we ever came to Stoke Moran. My dear Holmes! Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement that she said her sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course, it has been suggested that at once there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon by the coroner's inquiry. I deduced a ventilator. I cannot... But what harm can there be in that? Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does that not strike you? I cannot as yet see any connection. Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed? It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that before? I cannot say that I have. The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same relative position to the ventilator and the rope, or so we may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell pull. Holmes! I cried. I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime. Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor goes wrong, he is the first of criminals. He has the nerve and he has the knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is over. For goodness sake, let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds to a few hours, to something more cheerful. About nine o'clock, the light among the trees was extinguished and all was dark in the direction of the manor house. Two hours passed slowly away and then suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright light shone out right in front of us. That is our signal, said Holmes, springing to his feet. It comes from the middle window. As we passed out, he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining that we were going to take a late visit on an acquaintance and that it was possible we might spend the night there. A moment later, we were out in the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our somber errand. There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired breeches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the window when out of a clump of laurel bushes darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness. My God, I whispered, did you see it? Holmes was for a moment as startled as his eye. His hand closed like a vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear. It is a nice household, he murmured. That's the baboon. I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected. There was a cheetah too, and perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following Holmes's example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes around the room. All was as we had seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all I could do to distinguish the words. The least sound would be fatal to our plan. I nodded to show that I had heard. We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator. I nodded again. Do not go to sleep. Your very life might depend on it. Have your pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed and you in that chair. I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table. Holmes had brought a long, thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed beside him. But by it he laid a box of matches and the stump of a candle. Then he turned down the lamp and we were left in darkness. How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath. And yet I knew my companion sat open-eyed within a few feet of me. In that same state of nervous tension in which I was myself, the shutters cut off the least ray of light and we waited in absolute darkness. From outside came the occasional cry of a nightbird, and once at our very window a long, drawn, cat-like whine which told us the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one, and two, and three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall. Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of light up in the direction of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room had lit a dark lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears, then suddenly another sound became audible, a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant we heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with his cane at the bell-pool. You see it, Watson! he yelled. You see it! But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light, I heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing up at the ventilator, when suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder and louder. A hoarse yell of pain and anger all mingled in one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the village, even the distant parsonage, that cry raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died away into the silence from which it rose. What can it mean? I gaped. It means that all is over, said Holmes, answered. And perhaps, after all, it's for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott's room. With a grave face, he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then he turned the handle and entered. I had his heels with a cocked pistol in my hand. It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a dark lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimsby Roylott, clad in the long grey dressing gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet thrust into long, red, heelish Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short stock of the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked upward, and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow, he had a peculiar yellow band with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his head. As we entered, he made neither sound nor motion. The band, the speckled band, whispered Holmes. I took a step forward, and in an instant his strange headgear began to move, and then reared from his hair the squat, diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent. It is a swamp adder, cried Holmes, the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does in truth recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and then we can remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter, and let the county police know what has happened. As he spoke, he drew the dog whip swiftly from the dead man's lap, and throwing the noose round the reptile's neck, he drew it from its horrid perch, and carrying it at arm's length, threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it. Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimsby Roilette of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has already run to greater lengths by telling how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, and how the slow process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn of this case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back the next day. I had, said he, come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data. The presence of the gypsies and the use of the word band, which was used by the poor girl, no doubt to explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me on an entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly recovered my position when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened the occupant of the room could not come from either the window or the door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this ventilator and the bell rope which hung down by the bed. The discovery that this was a dummy and that the bed was clamped to the floor instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had an eastern training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect could also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner indeed who could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show whether poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course, he must have recalled the snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through the ventilator at the hour he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might, or might not, bite the occupant. Perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner or later she must fall a victim. I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered the room. An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to dispel any doubts which might have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the steps which I took in order to have put the matter to the proof. I heard the creature hiss, as I have no doubt you did also, and I immediately lit the light and attacked it, with the result of driving it through the ventilator, and also the result of causing it to turn upon its master on the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimsby-Roylott's death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience. And that is the conclusion of The Adventure of the Speckled Band by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Thank you for listening.