The Red-headed League

[DG-Tech]

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 combina-
tions 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 endeavoured, 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 Brit-
ish 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 be-
comes 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.

[DG-Tech]

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 Coun, 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 em-
ployee 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 colour, 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, [ 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 colour. 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 Ameri-
can 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 advertise-
ment. 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 colour they
were -- straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but,
as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid
flame-coloured 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," re-
marked 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
favourable 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.

[DG-Tech]

" '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 favour 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 Encyclopedia 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 congratu-
late 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
Encyclopedia 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 extraordi-
nary 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 endeavour 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."

[DG-Tech]

"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the
less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, feature-
less 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 introspec-
tive, 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 enclo-
sure, 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 out-
ward, 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 glanc-
ing 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 knowl-
edge 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 astute-
ness 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 edi-
tions. 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 knowl-
edge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him that after-
noon 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 neighbours, 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 Encyclopedia 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 pawn-
broker'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.

[DG-Tech]

"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 meth-
ods, 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 profes-
sion. 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 formi-
dable 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 exarnine 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?"

[DG-Tech]

"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 de-
pressing 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 rend-
ing, 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 com-
pletely. 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 sweep-
ing bow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody
of the detective.
"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we fol-
lowed 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."

[DG-Tech]

"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 advertise-
ment of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopedia, 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 colour
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
clue. 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."

[DG-Tech]

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