The Sign of the Four | Page 9

little children for their
insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is a philanthropist who
has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the London poor."
"In this case, however--"
"I never make exceptions. An exception disproves the rule. Have you ever had occasion
to study character in handwriting? What do you make of this fellow's scribble?"
"It is legible and regular," I answered. "A man of business habits and some force of
character."
"Holmes shook his head. "Look at his long letters," he said. "They hardly rise above the
common herd. That d might be an a, and that l an e. Men of character always differentiate
their long letters, however illegibly they may write. There is vacillation in his k's and
self-esteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few references to make. Let
me recommend this book,--one of the most remarkable ever penned. It is Winwood
Reade's 'Martyrdom of Man.' I shall be back in an hour."
I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were far from the
daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon our late visitor,--her smiles, the deep
rich tones of her voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were
seventeen at the time of her father's disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now,--a
sweet age, when youth has lost its self- consciousness and become a little sobered by
experience. So I sat and mused, until such dangerous thoughts came into my head that I
hurried away to my desk and plunged furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology.
What was I, an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account, that I
should dare to think of such things? She was a unit, a factor,--nothing more. If my future
were black, it was better surely to face it like a man than to attempt to brighten it by mere
will-o'-the-wisps of the imagination.

Chapter III
In Quest of a Solution

It was half-past five before Holmes returned. He was bright, eager, and in excellent
spirits,--a mood which in his case alternated with fits of the blackest depression.
"There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup of tea which I had
poured out for him. "The facts appear to admit of only one explanation."
"What! you have solved it already?"
"Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive fact, that is all. It is,
however, VERY suggestive. The details are still to be added. I have just found, on
consulting the back files of the Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of the
34th Bombay Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882."
"I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests."
"No? You surprise me. Look at it in this way, then. Captain Morstan disappears. The only
person in London whom he could have visited is Major Sholto. Major Sholto denies
having heard that he was in London. Four years later Sholto dies. WITHIN A WEEK OF
HIS DEATH Captain Morstan's daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated
from year to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her as a wronged
woman. What wrong can it refer to except this deprivation of her father? And why should
the presents begin immediately after Sholto's death, unless it is that Sholto's heir knows
something of the mystery and desires to make compensation? Have you any alternative
theory which will meet the facts?"
"But what a strange compensation! And how strangely made! Why, too, should he write a
letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, the letter speaks of giving her justice. What
justice can she have? It is too much to suppose that her father is still alive. There is no
other injustice in her case that you know of."
"There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said Sherlock Holmes, pensively.
"But our expedition of to-night will solve them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss
Morstan is inside. Are you all ready? Then we had better go down, for it is a little past the
hour."
I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes took his revolver
from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket. It was clear that he thought that our night's
work might be a serious one.
Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was composed, but pale.
She must have been more than woman if she did not feel some uneasiness at the strange
enterprise upon which we were embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she

readily answered the few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes