Chapter 2

‘It is too serious for me to
speak about, even to you,’ said he. I could get nothing more.”

Holmes looked grave.

“Go on, Miss Westbury. Even if it seems to tell against him, go on. We
cannot say what it may lead to.”

“Indeed, I have nothing more to tell. Once or twice it seemed to me
that he was on the point of telling me something. He spoke one evening
of the importance of the secret, and I have some recollection that he
said that no doubt foreign spies would pay a great deal to have it.”

My friend’s face grew graver still.

“Anything else?”

“He said that we were slack about such matters—that it would be easy
for a traitor to get the plans.”

“Was it only recently that he made such remarks?”

“Yes, quite recently.”

“Now tell us of that last evening.”

“We were to go to the theatre. The fog was so thick that a cab was
useless. We walked, and our way took us close to the office. Suddenly
he darted away into the fog.”

“Without a word?”

“He gave an exclamation; that was all. I waited but he never returned.
Then I walked home. Next morning, after the office opened, they came to
inquire. About twelve o’clock we heard the terrible news. Oh, Mr.
Holmes, if you could only, only save his honour! It was so much to
him.”

Holmes shook his head sadly.

“Come, Watson,” said he, “our ways lie elsewhere. Our next station must
be the office from which the papers were taken.

“It was black enough before against this young man, but our inquiries
make it blacker,” he remarked as the cab lumbered off. “His coming
marriage gives a motive for the crime. He naturally wanted money. The
idea was in his head, since he spoke about it. He nearly made the girl
an accomplice in the treason by telling her his plans. It is all very
bad.”

“But surely, Holmes, character goes for something? Then, again, why
should he leave the girl in the street and dart away to commit a
felony?”

“Exactly! There are certainly objections. But it is a formidable case
which they have to meet.”

Mr. Sidney Johnson, the senior clerk, met us at the office and received
us with that respect which my companion’s card always commanded. He was
a thin, gruff, bespectacled man of middle age, his cheeks haggard, and
his hands twitching from the nervous strain to which he had been
subjected.

“It is bad, Mr. Holmes, very bad! Have you heard of the death of the
chief?”

“We have just come from his house.”

“The place is disorganised. The chief dead, Cadogan West dead, our
papers stolen. And yet, when we closed our door on Monday evening, we
were as efficient an office as any in the government service. Good God,
it’s dreadful to think of! That West, of all men, should have done such
a thing!”

“You are sure of his guilt, then?”

“I can see no other way out of it. And yet I would have trusted him as
I trust myself.”

“At what hour was the office closed on Monday?”

“At five.”

“Did you close it?”

“I am always the last man out.”

“Where were the plans?”

“In that safe. I put them there myself.”

“Is there no watchman to the building?”

“There is, but he has other departments to look after as well. He is an
old soldier and a most trustworthy man. He saw nothing that evening. Of
course the fog was very thick.”

“Suppose that Cadogan West wished to make his way into the building
after hours; he would need three keys, would he not, before he could
reach the papers?”

“Yes, he would. The key of the outer door, the key of the office, and
the key of the safe.”

“Only Sir James Walter and you had those keys?”

“I had no keys of the doors—only of the safe.”

“Was Sir James a man who was orderly in his habits?”

“Yes, I think he was. I know that so far as those three keys are
concerned he kept them on the same ring. I have often seen them there.”

“And that ring went with him to London?”

“He said so.”

“And your key never left your possession?”

“Never.”

“Then West, if he is the culprit, must have had a duplicate. And yet
none was found upon his body. One other point: if a clerk in this
office desired to sell the plans, would it not be simpler to copy the
plans for himself than to take the originals, as was actually done?”

“It would take considerable technical knowledge to copy the plans in an
effective way.”

“But I suppose either Sir James, or you, or West has that technical
knowledge?”

“No doubt we had, but I beg you won’t try to drag me into the matter,
Mr. Holmes. What is the use of our speculating in this way when the
original plans were actually found on West?”

“Well, it is certainly singular that he should run the risk of taking
originals if he could safely have taken copies, which would have
equally served his turn.”

“Singular, no doubt—and yet he did so.”

“Every inquiry in this case reveals something inexplicable. Now there
are three papers still missing. They are, as I understand, the vital
ones.”

“Yes, that is so.”

“Do you mean to say that anyone holding these three papers, and without
the seven others, could construct a Bruce-Partington submarine?”

“I reported to that effect to the Admiralty. But to-day I have been
over the drawings again, and I am not so sure of it. The double valves
with the automatic self-adjusting slots are drawn in one of the papers
which have been returned. Until the foreigners had invented that for
themselves they could not make the boat. Of course they might soon get
over the difficulty.”

“But the three missing drawings are the most important?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“I think, with your permission, I will now take a stroll round the
premises. I do not recall any other question which I desired to ask.”

He examined the lock of the safe, the door of the room, and finally the
iron shutters of the window. It was only when we were on the lawn
outside that his interest was strongly excited. There was a laurel bush
outside the window, and several of the branches bore signs of having
been twisted or snapped. He examined them carefully with his lens, and
then some dim and vague marks upon the earth beneath. Finally he asked
the chief clerk to close the iron shutters, and he pointed out to me
that they hardly met in the centre, and that it would be possible for
anyone outside to see what was going on within the room.

“The indications are ruined by three days’ delay. They may mean
something or nothing. Well, Watson, I do not think that Woolwich can
help us further. It is a small crop which we have gathered. Let us see
if we can do better in London.”

Yet we added one more sheaf to our harvest before we left Woolwich
Station. The clerk in the ticket office was able to say with confidence
that he saw Cadogan West—whom he knew well by sight—upon the Monday
night, and that he went to London by the 8:15 to London Bridge. He was
alone and took a single third-class ticket. The clerk was struck at the
time by his excited and nervous manner. So shaky was he that he could
hardly pick up his change, and the clerk had helped him with it. A
reference to the timetable showed that the 8:15 was the first train
which it was possible for West to take after he had left the lady about
7:30.

“Let us reconstruct, Watson,” said Holmes after half an hour of
silence. “I am not aware that in all our joint researches we have ever
had a case which was more difficult to get at. Every fresh advance
which we make only reveals a fresh ridge beyond. And yet we have surely
made some appreciable progress.

“The effect of our inquiries at Woolwich has in the main been against
young Cadogan West; but the indications at the window would lend
themselves to a more favourable hypothesis. Let us suppose, for
example, that he had been approached by some foreign agent. It might
have been done under such pledges as would have prevented him from
speaking of it, and yet would have affected his thoughts in the
direction indicated by his remarks to his fiancée. Very good. We will
now suppose that as he went to the theatre with the young lady he
suddenly, in the fog, caught a glimpse of this same agent going in the
direction of the office. He was an impetuous man, quick in his
decisions. Everything gave way to his duty. He followed the man,
reached the window, saw the abstraction of the documents, and pursued
the thief. In this way we get over the objection that no one would take
originals when he could make copies. This outsider had to take
originals. So far it holds together.”

“What is the next step?”

“Then we come into difficulties. One would imagine that under such
circumstances the first act of young Cadogan West would be to seize the
villain and raise the alarm. Why did he not do so? Could it have been
an official superior who took the papers? That would explain West’s
conduct. Or could the chief have given West the slip in the fog, and
West started at once to London to head him off from his own rooms,
presuming that he knew where the rooms were? The call must have been
very pressing, since he left his girl standing in the fog and made no
effort to communicate with her. Our scent runs cold here, and there is
a vast gap between either hypothesis and the laying of West’s body,
with seven papers in his pocket, on the roof of a Metropolitan train.
My instinct now is to work from the other end. If Mycroft has given us
the list of addresses we may be able to pick our man and follow two
tracks instead of one.”

Surely enough, a note awaited us at Baker Street. A government
messenger had brought it post-haste. Holmes glanced at it and threw it
over to me.

There are numerous small fry, but few who would handle so big an
affair. The only men worth considering are Adolph Mayer, of 13, Great
George Street, Westminster; Louis La Rothière, of Campden Mansions,
Notting Hill; and Hugo Oberstein, 13, Caulfield Gardens, Kensington.
The latter was known to be in town on Monday and is now reported as
having left. Glad to hear you have seen some light. The Cabinet awaits
your final report with the utmost anxiety. Urgent representations have
arrived from the very highest quarter. The whole force of the State is
at your back if you should need it.—Mycroft.

“I’m afraid,” said Holmes, smiling, “that all the Queen’s horses and
all the Queen’s men cannot avail in this matter.” He had spread out his
big map of London and leaned eagerly over it. “Well, well,” said he
presently with an exclamation of satisfaction, “things are turning a
little in our direction at last. Why, Watson, I do honestly believe
that we are going to pull it off, after all.” He slapped me on the
shoulder with a sudden burst of hilarity. “I am going out now. It is
only a reconnaissance. I will do nothing serious without my trusted
comrade and biographer at my elbow. Do you stay here, and the odds are
that you will see me again in an hour or two. If time hangs heavy get
foolscap and a pen, and begin your narrative of how we saved the
State.”

I felt some reflection of his elation in my own mind, for I knew well
that he would not depart so far from his usual austerity of demeanour
unless there was good cause for exultation. All the long November
evening I waited, filled with impatience for his return. At last,
shortly after nine o’clock, there arrived a messenger with a note:

Am dining at Goldini’s Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please
come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern,
a chisel, and a revolver.—S.H.

It was a nice equipment for a respectable citizen to carry through the
dim, fog-draped streets. I stowed them all discreetly away in my
overcoat and drove straight to the address given. There sat my friend
at a little round table near the door of the garish Italian restaurant.

“Have you had something to eat? Then join me in a coffee and curaçao.
Try one of the proprietor’s cigars. They are less poisonous than one
would expect. Have you the tools?”

“They are here, in my overcoat.”

“Excellent. Let me give you a short sketch of what I have done, with
some indication of what we are about to do. Now it must be evident to
you, Watson, that this young man’s body was _placed_ on the roof of the
train. That was clear from the instant that I determined the fact that
it was from the roof, and not from a carriage, that he had fallen.”

“Could it not have been dropped from a bridge?”

“I should say it was impossible. If you examine the roofs you will find
that they are slightly rounded, and there is no railing round them.
Therefore, we can say for certain that young Cadogan West was placed on
it.”

“How could he be placed there?”

“That was the question which we had to answer. There is only one
possible way. You are aware that the Underground runs clear of tunnels
at some points in the West End. I had a vague memory that as I have
travelled by it I have occasionally seen windows just above my head.
Now, suppose that a train halted under such a window, would there be
any difficulty in laying a body upon the roof?”

“It seems most improbable.”

“We must fall back upon the old axiom that when all other contingencies
fail, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Here all
other contingencies _have_ failed. When I found that the leading
international agent, who had just left London, lived in a row of houses
which abutted upon the Underground, I was so pleased that you were a
little astonished at my sudden frivolity.”

“Oh, that was it, was it?”

“Yes, that was it. Mr. Hugo Oberstein, of 13, Caulfield Gardens, had
become my objective. I began my operations at Gloucester Road Station,
where a very helpful official walked with me along the track and
allowed me to satisfy myself not only that the back-stair windows of
Caulfield Gardens open on the line but the even more essential fact
that, owing to the intersection of one of the larger railways, the
Underground trains are frequently held motionless for some minutes at
that very spot.”

“Splendid, Holmes! You have got it!”

“So far—so far, Watson. We advance, but the goal is afar. Well, having
seen the back of Caulfield Gardens, I visited the front and satisfied
myself that the bird was indeed flown. It is a considerable house,
unfurnished, so far as I could judge, in the upper rooms. Oberstein
lived there with a single valet, who was probably a confederate
entirely in his confidence. We must bear in mind that Oberstein has
gone to the Continent to dispose of his booty, but not with any idea of
flight; for he had no reason to fear a warrant, and the idea of an
amateur domiciliary visit would certainly never occur to him. Yet that
is precisely what we are about to make.”

“Could we not get a warrant and legalise it?”

“Hardly on the evidence.”

“What can we hope to do?”

“We cannot tell what correspondence may be there.”

“I don’t like it, Holmes.”

“My dear fellow, you shall keep watch in the street. I’ll do the
criminal part. It’s not a time to stick at trifles. Think of Mycroft’s
note, of the Admiralty, the Cabinet, the exalted person who waits for
news. We are bound to go.”

My answer was to rise from the table.

“You are right, Holmes. We are bound to go.”

He sprang up and shook me by the hand.

“I knew you would not shrink at the last,” said he, and for a moment I
saw something in his eyes which was nearer to tenderness than I had
ever seen. The next instant he was his masterful, practical self once
more.

“It is nearly half a mile, but there is no hurry. Let us walk,” said
he. “Don’t drop the instruments, I beg. Your arrest as a suspicious
character would be a most unfortunate complication.”

Caulfield Gardens was one of those lines of flat-faced pillared, and
porticoed houses which are so prominent a product of the middle
Victorian epoch in the West End of London. Next door there appeared to
be a children’s party, for the merry buzz of young voices and the
clatter of a piano resounded through the night. The fog still hung
about and screened us with its friendly shade. Holmes had lit his
lantern and flashed it upon the massive door.

“This is a serious proposition,” said he. “It is certainly bolted as
well as locked. We would do better in the area. There is an excellent
archway down yonder in case a too zealous policeman should intrude.
Give me a hand, Watson, and I’ll do the same for you.”

A minute later we were both in the area. Hardly had we reached the dark
shadows before the step of the policeman was heard in the fog above. As
its soft rhythm died away, Holmes set to work upon the lower door. I
saw him stoop and strain until with a sharp crash it flew open. We
sprang through into the dark passage, closing the area door behind us.
Holmes led the way up the curving, uncarpeted stair. His little fan of
yellow light shone upon a low window.

“Here we are, Watson—this must be the one.” He threw it open, and as he
did so there was a low, harsh murmur, growing steadily into a loud roar
as a train dashed past us in the darkness. Holmes swept his light along
the window-sill. It was thickly coated with soot from the passing
engines, but the black surface was blurred and rubbed in places.

“You can see where they rested the body. Halloa, Watson! what is this?
There can be no doubt that it is a blood mark.” He was pointing to
faint discolorations along the woodwork of the window. “Here it is on
the stone of the stair also. The demonstration is complete. Let us stay
here until a train stops.”

We had not long to wait. The very next train roared from the tunnel as
before, but slowed in the open, and then, with a creaking of brakes,
pulled up immediately beneath us. It was not four feet from the
window-ledge to the roof of the carriages. Holmes softly closed the
window.

“So far we are justified,” said he. “What do you think of it, Watson?”

“A masterpiece. You have never risen to a greater height.”

“I cannot agree with you there. From the moment that I conceived the
idea of the body being upon the roof, which surely was not a very
abstruse one, all the rest was inevitable. If it were not for the grave
interests involved the affair up to this point would be insignificant.
Our difficulties are still before us. But perhaps we may find something
here which may help us.”

We had ascended the kitchen stair and entered the suite of rooms upon
the first floor. One was a dining-room, severely furnished and
containing nothing of interest. A second was a bedroom, which also drew
blank. The remaining room appeared more promising, and my companion
settled down to a systematic examination. It was littered with books
and papers, and was evidently used as a study. Swiftly and methodically
Holmes turned over the contents of drawer after drawer and cupboard
after cupboard, but no gleam of success came to brighten his austere
face. At the end of an hour he was no further than when he started.

“The cunning dog has covered his tracks,” said he. “He has left nothing
to incriminate him. His dangerous correspondence has been destroyed or
removed. This is our last chance.”

It was a small tin cash-box which stood upon the writing-desk. Holmes
pried it open with his chisel. Several rolls of paper were within,
covered with figures and calculations, without any note to show to what
they referred. The recurring words, “water pressure” and “pressure to
the square inch” suggested some possible relation to a submarine.
Holmes tossed them all impatiently aside. There only remained an
envelope with some small newspaper slips inside it. He shook them out
on the table, and at once I saw by his eager face that his hopes had
been raised.

“What’s this, Watson? Eh? What’s this? Record of a series of messages
in the advertisements of a paper. _Daily Telegraph_ agony column by the
print and paper. Right-hand top corner of a page. No dates—but messages
arrange themselves. This must be the first:

“Hoped to hear sooner. Terms agreed to. Write fully to address given on
card.—Pierrot.

“Next comes:

“Too complex for description. Must have full report. Stuff awaits you
when goods delivered.—Pierrot.

“Then comes:

“Matter presses. Must withdraw offer unless contract completed. Make
appointment by letter. Will confirm by advertisement.—Pierrot.

“Finally:

“Monday night after nine. Two taps. Only ourselves. Do not be so
suspicious. Payment in hard cash when goods delivered.—Pierrot.

“A fairly complete record, Watson! If we could only get at the man at
the other end!” He sat lost in thought, tapping his fingers on the
table. Finally he sprang to his feet.

“Well, perhaps it won’t be so difficult, after all. There is nothing
more to be done here, Watson. I think we might drive round to the
offices of the _Daily Telegraph_, and so bring a good day’s work to a
conclusion.”

Mycroft Holmes and Lestrade had come round by appointment after
breakfast next day and Sherlock Holmes had recounted to them our
proceedings of the day before. The professional shook his head over our
confessed burglary.

“We can’t do these things in the force, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “No
wonder you get results that are beyond us. But some of these days
you’ll go too far, and you’ll find yourself and your friend in
trouble.”

“For England, home and beauty—eh, Watson? Martyrs on the altar of our
country. But what do you think of it, Mycroft?”

“Excellent, Sherlock! Admirable! But what use will you make of it?”

Holmes picked up the _Daily Telegraph_ which lay upon the table.

“Have you seen Pierrot’s advertisement to-day?”

“What? Another one?”

“Yes, here it is:

“To-night. Same hour. Same place. Two taps. Most vitally important.
Your own safety at stake.—Pierrot.

“By George!” cried Lestrade. “If he answers that we’ve got him!”

“That was my idea when I put it in. I think if you could both make it
convenient to come with us about eight o’clock to Caulfield Gardens we
might possibly get a little nearer to a solution.”

One of the most remarkable characteristics of Sherlock Holmes was his
power of throwing his brain out of action and switching all his
thoughts on to lighter things whenever he had convinced himself that he
could no longer work to advantage. I remember that during the whole of
that memorable day he lost himself in a monograph which he had
undertaken upon the Polyphonic Motets of Lassus. For my own part I had
none of this power of detachment, and the day, in consequence, appeared
to be interminable. The great national importance of the issue, the
suspense in high quarters, the direct nature of the experiment which we
were trying—all combined to work upon my nerve. It was a relief to me
when at last, after a light dinner, we set out upon our expedition.
Lestrade and Mycroft met us by appointment at the outside of Gloucester
Road Station. The area door of Oberstein’s house had been left open the
night before, and it was necessary for me, as Mycroft Holmes absolutely
and indignantly declined to climb the railings, to pass in and open the
hall door. By nine o’clock we were all seated in the study, waiting
patiently for our man.

An hour passed and yet another. When eleven struck, the measured beat
of the great church clock seemed to sound the dirge of our hopes.
Lestrade and Mycroft were fidgeting in their seats and looking twice a
minute at their watches. Holmes sat silent and composed, his eyelids
half shut, but every sense on the alert. He raised his head with a
sudden jerk.

“He is coming,” said he.

There had been a furtive step past the door. Now it returned. We heard
a shuffling sound outside, and then two sharp taps with the knocker.
Holmes rose, motioning us to remain seated. The gas in the hall was a
mere point of light. He opened the outer door, and then as a dark
figure slipped past him he closed and fastened it. “This way!” we heard
him say, and a moment later our man stood before us. Holmes had
followed him closely, and as the man turned with a cry of surprise and
alarm he caught him by the collar and threw him back into the room.
Before our prisoner had recovered his balance the door was shut and
Holmes standing with his back against it. The man glared round him,
staggered, and fell senseless upon the floor. With the shock, his
broad-brimmed hat flew from his head, his cravat slipped down from his
lips, and there were the long light beard and the soft, handsome
delicate features of Colonel Valentine Walter.

Holmes gave a whistle of surprise.

“You can write me down an ass this time, Watson,” said he. “This was
not the bird that I was looking for.”

“Who is he?” asked Mycroft eagerly.

“The younger brother of the late Sir James Walter, the head of the
Submarine Department. Yes, yes; I see the fall of the cards. He is
coming to. I think that you had best leave his examination to me.”

We had carried the prostrate body to the sofa. Now our prisoner sat up,
looked round him with a horror-stricken face, and passed his hand over
his forehead, like one who cannot believe his own senses.

“What is this?” he asked. “I came here to visit Mr. Oberstein.”

“Everything is known, Colonel Walter,” said Holmes. “How an English
gentleman could behave in such a manner is beyond my comprehension. But
your whole correspondence and relations with Oberstein are within our
knowledge. So also are the circumstances connected with the death of
young Cadogan West. Let me advise you to gain at least the small credit
for repentance and confession, since there are still some details which
we can only learn from your lips.”

The man groaned and sank his face in his hands. We waited, but he was
silent.

“I can assure you,” said Holmes, “that every essential is already
known. We know that you were pressed for money; that you took an
impress of the keys which your brother held; and that you entered into
a correspondence with Oberstein, who answered your letters through the
advertisement columns of the _Daily Telegraph_. We are aware that you
went down to the office in the fog on Monday night, but that you were
seen and followed by young Cadogan West, who had probably some previous
reason to suspect you. He saw your theft, but could not give the alarm,
as it was just possible that you were taking the papers to your brother
in London. Leaving all his private concerns, like the good citizen that
he was, he followed you closely in the fog and kept at your heels until
you reached this very house. There he intervened, and then it was,
Colonel Walter, that to treason you added the more terrible crime of
murder.”

“I did not! I did not! Before God I swear that I did not!” cried our
wretched prisoner.

“Tell us, then, how Cadogan West met his end before you laid him upon
the roof of a railway carriage.”

“I will. I swear to you that I will. I did the rest. I confess it. It
was just as you say. A Stock Exchange debt had to be paid. I needed the
money badly. Oberstein offered me five thousand. It was to save myself
from ruin. But as to murder, I am as innocent as you.”

“What happened, then?”

“He had his suspicions before, and he followed me as you describe. I
never knew it until I was at the very door. It was thick fog, and one
could not see three yards. I had given two taps and Oberstein had come
to the door. The young man rushed up and demanded to know what we were
about to do with the papers. Oberstein had a short life-preserver. He
always carried it with him. As West forced his way after us into the
house Oberstein struck him on the head. The blow was a fatal one.

He
was dead within five minutes. There he lay in the hall, and we were at
our wits’ end what to do. Then Oberstein had this idea about the trains
which halted under his back window. But first he examined the papers
which I had brought. He said that three of them were essential, and
that he must keep them. ‘You cannot keep them,’ said I. ‘There will be
a dreadful row at Woolwich if they are not returned.’ ‘I must keep
them,’ said he, ‘for they are so technical that it is impossible in the
time to make copies.’ ‘Then they must all go back together to-night,’
said I. He thought for a little, and then he cried out that he had it.
‘Three I will keep,’ said he. ‘The others we will stuff into the pocket
of this young man. When he is found the whole business will assuredly
be put to his account.’ I could see no other way out of it, so we did
as he suggested. We waited half an hour at the window before a train
stopped. It was so thick that nothing could be seen, and we had no
difficulty in lowering West’s body on to the train. That was the end of
the matter so far as I was concerned.”

“And your brother?”

“He said nothing, but he had caught me once with his keys, and I think
that he suspected. I read in his eyes that he suspected. As you know,
he never held up his head again.”

There was silence in the room. It was broken by Mycroft Holmes.

“Can you not make reparation? It would ease your conscience, and
possibly your punishment.”

“What reparation can I make?”

“Where is Oberstein with the papers?”

“I do not know.”

“Did he give you no address?”

“He said that letters to the Hôtel du Louvre, Paris, would eventually
reach him.”

“Then reparation is still within your power,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“I will do anything I can. I owe this fellow no particular good-will.
He has been my ruin and my downfall.”

“Here are paper and pen. Sit at this desk and write to my dictation.
Direct the envelope to the address given. That is right. Now the
letter:

“Dear Sir:

“With regard to our transaction, you will no doubt have observed by now
that one essential detail is missing. I have a tracing which will make
it complete. This has involved me in extra trouble, however, and I must
ask you for a further advance of five hundred pounds. I will not trust
it to the post, nor will I take anything but gold or notes. I would
come to you abroad, but it would excite remark if I left the country at
present. Therefore I shall expect to meet you in the smoking-room of
the Charing Cross Hotel at noon on Saturday. Remember that only English
notes, or gold, will be taken.

“That will do very well. I shall be very much surprised if it does not
fetch our man.”

And it did! It is a matter of history—that secret history of a nation
which is often so much more intimate and interesting than its public
chronicles—that Oberstein, eager to complete the coup of his lifetime,
came to the lure and was safely engulfed for fifteen years in a British
prison. In his trunk were found the invaluable Bruce-Partington plans,
which he had put up for auction in all the naval centres of Europe.

Colonel Walter died in prison towards the end of the second year of his
sentence. As to Holmes, he returned refreshed to his monograph upon the
Polyphonic Motets of Lassus, which has since been printed for private
circulation, and is said by experts to be the last word upon the
subject. Some weeks afterwards I learned incidentally that my friend
spent a day at Windsor, whence he returned with a remarkably fine
emerald tie-pin. When I asked him if he had bought it, he answered that
it was a present from a certain gracious lady in whose interests he had
once been fortunate enough to carry out a small commission. He said no
more; but I fancy that I could guess at that lady’s august name, and I
have little doubt that the emerald pin will forever recall to my
friend’s memory the adventure of the Bruce-Partington plans.