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SHERLOCKHOLMES-EMPTYHOUSE 01 LYRICS

THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES.
By ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.

The Adventure of the Empty House.

IT was in the spring of the year 1894 that all London was
interested, and the fashionable world dismayed, by the murder of
the Honourable Ronald Adair under most unusual and inexplicable
circumstances. The public has already learned those particulars
of the crime which came out in the police investigation; but a
good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for
the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not
necessary to bring forward all the facts. Only now, at the end
of nearly ten years, am I allowed to supply those missing links
which make up the whole of that remarkable chain. The crime was
of interest in itself, but that interest was as nothing to me
compared to the inconceivable sequel, which afforded me the
greatest shock and surprise of any event in my adventurous life.
Even now, after this long interval, I find myself thrilling as
I think of it, and feeling once more that sudden flood of joy,
amazement, and incredulity which utterly submerged my mind.
Let me say to that public which has shown some interest in those
glimpses which I have occasionally given them of the thoughts
and actions of a very remarkable man that they are not to blame
me if I have not shared my knowledge with them, for I should
have considered it my first duty to have done so had I not been
barred by a positive prohibition from his own lips, which was
only withdrawn upon the third of last month.

It can be imagined that my close intimacy with Sherlock Holmes
had interested me deeply in crime, and that after his
disappearance I never failed to read with care the various
problems which came before the public, and I even attempted more
than once for my own private satisfaction to employ his methods
in their solution, though with indifferent success. There was
none, however, which appealed to me like this tragedy of Ronald
Adair. As I read the evidence at the inquest, which led up to
a verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons
unknown, I realized more clearly than I had ever done the loss
which the community had sustained by the death of Sherlock
Holmes. There were points about this strange business which
would, I was sure, have specially appealed to him, and the
efforts of the police would have been supplemented, or more
probably anticipated, by the trained observation and the alert
mind of the first criminal agent in Europe. All day as I drove
upon my round I turned over the case in my mind, and found no
explanation which appeared to me to be adequate. At the risk of
telling a twice-told tale I will recapitulate the facts as they
were known to the public at the conclusion of the inquest.

The Honourable Ronald Adair was the second son of the Earl
of Maynooth, at that time Governor of one of the Australian
Colonies. Adair's mother had returned from Australia to
undergo the operation for cataract, and she, her son Ronald,
and her daughter Hilda were living together at 427, Park Lane.
The youth moved in the best society, had, so far as was known,
no enemies, and no particular vices. He had been engaged to Miss
Edith Woodley, of Carstairs, but the engagement had been broken
off by mutual consent some months before, and there was no sign
that it had left any very profound feeling behind it. For the
rest the man's life moved in a narrow and conventional circle,
for his habits were quiet and his nature unemotional. Yet it
was upon this easy-going young aristocrat that death came in
most strange and unexpected form between the hours of ten and
eleven-twenty on the night of March 30, 1894.

Ronald Adair was fond of cards, playing continually, but never
for such stakes as would hurt him. He was a member of the
Baldwin, the Cavendish, and the Bagatelle card clubs. It was
shown that after dinner on the day of his death he had played
a rubber of whist at the latter club. He had also played there
in the afternoon. The evidence of those who had played with him
-- Mr. Murray, Sir John Hardy, and Colonel Moran -- showed that
the game was whist, and that there was a fairly equal fall of
the cards. Adair might have lost five pounds, but not more.
His fortune was a considerable one, and such a loss could not in
any way affect him. He had played nearly every day at one club
or other, but he was a cautious player, and usually rose a winner.
It came out in evidence that in partnership with Colonel Moran
he had actually won as much as four hundred and twenty pounds in
a sitting some weeks before from Godfrey Milner and Lord Balmoral.
So much for his recent history, as it came out at the inquest.

On the evening of the crime he returned from the club exactly at
ten. His mother and sister were out spending the evening with a
relation. The servant deposed that she heard him enter the front
room on the second floor, generally used as his sitting-room.
She had lit a fire there, and as it smoked she had opened the window.
No sound was heard from the room until eleven-twenty, the hour of
the return of Lady Maynooth and her daughter. Desiring to say
good-night, she had attempted to enter her son's room. The door
was locked on the inside, and no answer could be got to their
cries and knocking. Help was obtained and the door forced.
The unfortunate young man was found lying near the table.
His head had been horribly mutilated by an expanding revolver
bullet, but no weapon of any sort was to be found in the room.
On the table lay two bank-notes for ten pounds each and seventeen
pounds ten in silver and gold, the money arranged in little piles
of varying amount. There were some figures also upon a sheet of
paper with the names of some club friends opposite to them,
from which it was conjectured that before his death he was
endeavouring to make out his losses or winnings at cards.

A minute examination of the circumstances served only to make
the case more complex. In the first place, no reason could be
given why the young man should have fastened the door upon the
inside. There was the possibility that the murderer had done
this and had afterwards escaped by the window. The drop was at
least twenty feet, however, and a bed of crocuses in full bloom
lay beneath. Neither the flowers nor the earth showed any sign
of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks upon the
narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the road.
Apparently, therefore, it was the young man himself who had
fastened the door. But how did he come by his death?
No one could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces.
Suppose a man had fired through the window, it would indeed be a
remarkable shot who could with a revolver inflict so deadly a
wound. Again, Park Lane is a frequented thoroughfare, and there
is a cab-stand within a hundred yards of the house. No one had
heard a shot. And yet there was the dead man, and there the
revolver bullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets
will, and so inflicted a wound which must have caused
instantaneous death. Such were the circumstances of the Park
Lane Mystery, which were further complicated by entire absence
of motive, since, as I have said, young Adair was not known to
have any enemy, and no attempt had been made to remove the money
or valuables in the room.

All day I turned these facts over in my mind, endeavouring to
hit upon some theory which could reconcile them all, and to find
that line of least resistance which my poor friend had declared
to be the starting-point of every investigation. I confess that
I made little progress. In the evening I strolled across the
Park, and found myself about six o'clock at the Oxford Street
end of Park Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements, all
staring up at a particular window, directed me to the house
which I had come to see. A tall, thin man with coloured
glasses, whom I strongly suspected of being a plain-clothes
detective, was pointing out some theory of his own, while the
others crowded round to listen to what he said. I got as near
him as I could, but his observations seemed to me to be absurd,
so I withdrew again in some disgust. As I did so I struck
against an elderly deformed man, who had been behind me, and I
knocked down several books which he was carrying. I remember
that as I picked them up I observed the title of one of them,
"The Origin of Tree Worship," and it struck me that the fellow
must be some poor bibliophile who, either as a trade or as a
hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes. I endeavoured to
apologize for the accident, but it was evident that these books
which I had so unfortunately maltreated were very precious
objects in the eyes of their owner. With a snarl of contempt
he turned upon his heel, and I saw his curved back and white
side-whiskers disappear among the throng.

My observations of No. 427, Park Lane did little to clear up the
problem in which I was interested. The house was separated from
the street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than
five feet high. It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone
to get into the garden, but the window was entirely inaccessible,
since there was no water-pipe or anything which could help the
most active man to climb it. More puzzled than ever I retraced
my steps to Kensington. I had not been in my study five minutes
when the maid entered to say that a person desired to see me.
To my astonishment it was none other than my strange old
book-collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a frame
of white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least,
wedged under his right arm.

"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange,
croaking voice.

I acknowledged that I was.

"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go
into this house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself,
I'll just step in and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that
if I was a bit gruff in my manner there was not any harm meant,
and that I am much obliged to him for picking up my books."

"You make too much of a trifle," said I. "May I ask how you
knew who I was?"

"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour
of yours, for you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of
Church Street, and very happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you
collect yourself, sir; here's 'British Birds,' and 'Catullus,'
and 'The Holy War' -- a bargain every one of them. With five
volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf.
It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"

I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned
again Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my
study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds
in utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted
for the first and the last time in my life. Certainly a grey
mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my
collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon
my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand.

"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a
thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."

I gripped him by the arm.

"Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that
you are alive? Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing
out of that awful abyss?"

"Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that you are really
fit to discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my
unnecessarily dramatic reappearance."

"I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my
eyes. Good heavens, to think that you -- you of all men --
should be standing in my study!" Again I gripped him by the
sleeve and felt the thin, sinewy arm beneath it. "Well, you're
not a spirit, anyhow," said I. "My dear chap, I am overjoyed
to see you. Sit down and tell me how you came alive out of
that dreadful chasm."

He sat opposite to me and lit a cigarette in his old nonchalant
manner. He was dressed in the seedy frock-coat of the book
merchant, but the rest of that individual lay in a pile of white
hair and old books upon the table. Holmes looked even thinner
and keener than of old, but there was a dead-white tinge in his
aquiline face which told me that his life recently had not been
a healthy one.

"I am glad to stretch myself, Watson," said he. "It is no joke
when a tall man has to take a foot off his stature for several
hours on end. Now, my dear fellow, in the matter of these
explanations we have, if I may ask for your co-operation, a hard
and dangerous night's work in front of us. Perhaps it would be
better if I gave you an account of the whole situation when that
work is finished."

"I am full of curiosity. I should much prefer to hear now."

"You'll come with me to-night?"

"When you like and where you like."

"This is indeed like the old days. We shall have time for a
mouthful of dinner before we need go. Well, then, about that
chasm. I had no serious difficulty in getting out of it, for
the very simple reason that I never was in it."

"You never were in it?"

"No, Watson, I never was in it. My note to you was absolutely
genuine. I had little doubt that I had come to the end of my
career when I perceived the somewhat sinister figure of the late
Professor Moriarty standing upon the narrow pathway which led to
safety. I read an inexorable purpose in his grey eyes.
I exchanged some remarks with him, therefore, and obtained his
courteous permission to write the short note which you
afterwards received. I left it with my cigarette-box and my
stick and I walked along the pathway, Moriarty still at my
heels. When I reached the end I stood at bay. He drew no
weapon, but he rushed at me and threw his long arms around me.
He knew that his own game was up, and was only anxious to
revenge himself upon me. We tottered together upon the brink
of the fall. I have some knowledge, however, of baritsu, or the
Japanese system of wrestling, which has more than once been very
useful to me. I slipped through his grip, and he with a
horrible scream kicked madly for a few seconds and clawed the
air with both his hands. But for all his efforts he could not
get his balance, and over he went. With my face over the brink
I saw him fall for a long way. Then he struck a rock, bounded
off, and splashed into the water."

I listened with amazement to this explanation, which Holmes
delivered between the puffs of his cigarette.

"But the tracks!" I cried. "I saw with my own eyes that two
went down the path and none returned."

"It came about in this way. The instant that the Professor had
disappeared it struck me what a really extraordinarily lucky
chance Fate had placed in my way. I knew that Moriarty was not
the only man who had sworn my death. There were at least three
others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be
increased by the death of their leader. They were all most
dangerous men. One or other would certainly get me. On the
other hand, if all the world was convinced that I was dead they
would take liberties, these men, they would lay themselves open,
and sooner or later I could destroy them. Then it would be time
for me to announce that I was still in the land of the living.
So rapidly does the brain act that I believe I had thought this
all out before Professor Moriarty had reached the bottom
of the Reichenbach Fall.

"I stood up and examined the rocky wall behind me. In your
picturesque account of the matter, which I read with great
interest some months later, you assert that the wall was sheer.
This was not literally true. A few small footholds presented
themselves, and there was some indication of a ledge. The cliff
is so high that to climb it all was an obvious impossibility,
and it was equally impossible to make my way along the wet path
without leaving some tracks. I might, it is true, have reversed
my boots, as I have done on similar occasions, but the sight of
three sets of tracks in one direction would certainly have
suggested a deception. On the whole, then, it was best that I
should risk the climb. It was not a pleasant business, Watson.
The fall roared beneath me. I am not a fanciful person, but
I give you my word that I seemed to hear Moriarty's voice
screaming at me out of the abyss. A mistake would have been fatal.
More than once, as tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot
slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was gone.
But I struggled upwards, and at last I reached a ledge several feet
deep and covered with soft green moss, where I could lie unseen
in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched when you,
my dear Watson, and all your following were investigating in the most
sympathetic and inefficient manner the circumstances of my death.

"At last, when you had all formed your inevitable and totally
erroneous conclusions, you departed for the hotel and I was left
alone. I had imagined that I had reached the end of my adventures,
but a very unexpected occurrence showed me that there were
surprises still in store for me. A huge rock, falling from above,
boomed past me, struck the path, and bounded over into the chasm.
For an instant I thought that it was an accident; but a moment later,
looking up, I saw a man's head against the darkening sky, and
another stone struck the very ledge upon which I was stretched,
within a foot of my head. Of course, the meaning of this was obvious.
Moriarty had not been alone. A confederate -- and even that one
glance had told me how dangerous a man that confederate was --
had kept guard while the Professor had attacked me. From a distance,
unseen by me, he had been a witness of his friend's death and of my
escape. He had waited, and then, making his way round to the top of
the cliff, he had endeavoured to succeed where his comrade had failed.

"I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw
that grim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the
precursor of another stone. I scrambled down on to the path.
I don't think I could have done it in cold blood. It was a
hundred times more difficult than getting up. But I had no time
to think of the danger, for another stone sang past me as I hung
by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped,
but by the blessing of God I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the
path. I took to my heels, did ten miles over the mountains in
the darkness, and a week later I found myself in Florence with the
certainty that no one in the world knew what had become of me.

"I had only one confidant -- my brother Mycroft. I owe you many
apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it
should be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that you
would not have written so convincing an account of my unhappy
end had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several
times during the last three years I have taken up my pen to
write to you, but always I feared lest your affectionate regard
for me should tempt you to some indiscretion which would betray
my secret. For that reason I turned away from you this evening
when you upset my books, for I was in danger at the time, and
any show of surprise and emotion upon your part might have drawn
attention to my identity and led to the most deplorable and
irreparable results. As to Mycroft, I had to confide in him in
order to obtain the money which I needed. The course of events
in London did not run so well as I had hoped, for the trial of
the Moriarty gang left two of its most dangerous members, my own
most vindictive enemies, at liberty. I travelled for two years
in Tibet, therefore, and amused myself by visiting Lhassa and
spending some days with the head Llama. You may have read of
the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but
I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving
news of your friend. I then passed through Persia, looked in at
Mecca, and paid a short but interesting visit to the Khalifa at
Khartoum, the results of which I have communicated to the
Foreign Office. Returning to France I spent some months in a
research into the coal-tar derivatives, which I conducted in a
laboratory at Montpelier, in the South of France. Having
concluded this to my satisfaction, and learning that only one of
my enemies was now left in London, I was about to return when my
movements were hastened by the news of this very remarkable Park
Lane Mystery, which not only appealed to me by its own merits,
but which seemed to offer some most peculiar personal
opportunities. I came over at once to London, called in my own
person at Baker Street, threw Mrs. Hudson into violent hysterics,
and found that Mycroft had preserved my rooms and my papers
exactly as they had always been. So it was, my dear Watson,
that at two o'clock to-day I found myself in my old arm-chair in
my own old room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old
friend Watson in the other chair which he has so often adorned."

Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened on that
April evening -- a narrative which would have been utterly
incredible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight
of the tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had
never thought to see again. In some manner he had learned of my
own sad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his manner
rather than in his words. "Work is the best antidote to sorrow,
my dear Watson," said he, "and I have a piece of work for us
both to-night which, if we can bring it to a successful
conclusion, will in itself justify a man's life on this planet."
In vain I begged him to tell me more. "You will hear and see
enough before morning," he answered. "We have three years of
the past to discuss. Let that suffice until half-past nine,
when we start upon the notable adventure of the empty house."

It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myself
seated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket and the
thrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern and
silent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his
austere features I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought
and his thin lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast we
were about to hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London,
but I was well assured from the bearing of this master huntsman
that the adventure was a most grave one, while the sardonic
smile which occasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded
little good for the object of our quest.

I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, but Holmes
stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. I observed
that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glance to right
and left, and at every subsequent street corner he took the
utmost pains to assure that he was not followed. Our route was
certainly a singular one. Holmes's knowledge of the byways of
London was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidly,
and with an assured step, through a network of mews and stables
the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged at
last into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which led
us into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here he
turned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a wooden
gate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the back
door of a house. We entered together and he closed it behind us.