The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez: Part Two

network, this is the adventure of the Golden Palsnay part two. Last time Holmes was called

upon by Inspector Stanley Hopkins, who found himself baffled by a brutal and seemingly motiveless murder, the stabbing of Williby Smith, secretary to the esteemed Professor Corrum. Holmes and Watson journeyed with the Inspector to the Professor's secluded country home, Yoxley Old Place. There, the detective uncovered a trail of subtle clues, corridors lined with coconut-mating, a recent mark left by a keyhole, and signs that someone,

perhaps the killer, had been searching for private papers. As we rejoin the story,

Holmes is about to meet Professor Corrum for the first time. Perhaps the reclusive academic

“encast some light on the killing, or does he have something to hide?”

We passed down the passage, which was of the same length as that which led to the garden. At the end was a short flight of steps ending in a door. Our guide knocked and then ushered us into the Professor's bedroom. It was a very large chamber lined with enumerable volumes, which had overflowed from the shelves and lay in piles in the corners, or were stacked all round of the base of the cases. The bed was in the center of the room, and in it,

propped up with pillows, was the owner of the house. I have seldom seen a more remarkable looking person.

It was a gaunt, Aqualine face, which was turned towards us, with piercing dark eyes,

“which lurked in deep hollows under overhang and tufted brows. His hair and beard were white,”

saved that the latter was curiously stained with yellow around his mouth. The cigarette glowed amid the tangle of white hair, and the air of the room was fetched with stale tobacco smoke. As he held out his hand to homes, I perceived that it also was stained yellow with nicotine. "A smokeer, Mr. Holmes," said he, speaking well chosen English, with a curious little mincing accent. "Cray, take a cigarette, and you, sir, I can recommend them for I have them,

especially prepared by Ionides of Alexandria. He sends me a thousand at a time, and I grieve to say that I have to arrange for the fresh supply every fortnight."

“"That's very bad, but an old man has few pleasures, tobacco, and my work, that is all that is”

left to me." Holmes had lit a cigarette, and was shooting little darting glances all over the room. "To backo, and my work, but now, only to backo." The old man exclaimed, "alas, what a fatal interruption, who could have foreseen such a terrible catastrophe. So estimable, a young man, I assure you that after a few months training he was an admirable assistant, what do you think of the matter, Mr. Holmes?"

"I have not yet made up my mind. I shall indeed be indebted to you if you can through a light, where all is so dark to us, to a poor bookworm, and invulid like myself such a blow is paralyzing. And I seem to have lost the faculty of thought, but you are a man of action, you are a man of affairs. It is part of the everyday routine of your life, you can preserve your balance in every emergency we are fortunate indeed in having you at our side. Holmes was pacing up and down one

side of the room whilst the old professor was talking. "I observed that he was smoking with extraordinary rapidity. It was evident that he shared our hosts liking for the fresh Alexandria and cigarettes." "Yes, sir, it is a crushing blow," said the old man. "That is my magnum opus, the pilot papers on the side table yonder. It is my analysis of the documents found in the Coptic monasteries of Syria and Egypt, a work which will cut deep at the very foundations of

revealed religion. With my enfibled health, I do not know whether I shall ever be able to complete it now that my assistant has been taken from me." "Dear me, Mr. Holmes, why you are even a quicker

from the box, his fourth, and lighting it from the stub of that which he had finished. "I will not

“trouble you with any lengthy cross-examination professor, for since I gathered that you were in bed”

at the time of the crime and could know nothing about it. I would only ask this. What do you imagine that this poor fellow meant by his last words? The professor? It was she. The professor, shook his head. "The Susan is a country girl," said he, "and you know the incredible stupidity of that class, I fancy that the poor fellow murmured some incoherence and delirious words and that she twisted them into this meaningless message. I see, you have no explanation yourself of the

tragedy. Possibly an accident. Possibly I only read that among ourselves a suicide.

The young men have their hidden troubles, some affair of the heart, perhaps which we have never

“known. It is a more probable supposition than murder. But the eyeglasses, I am only a student, a man”

of dreams. I cannot explain the practical things of life, but still we are aware of my friend that love gauges may take strange shapes. But by all means take another cigarette. It is a pleasure to see anyone appreciate them. So, a fan, a glove, glasses, who knows what article may be carried as a token or treasured when a man puts an end to his life. This gentleman speaks of footsteps in the grass, but after all, it is easy to be mistaken on such a point. As to the knife, it might well be thrown

far from the unfortunate man as he fell. It is possible that I speak as a child. But to me, it seems that Willoughby Smith has met his fate by his own hand. Homes seemed struck by the theory thus put forward, and he continued to walk up and down for some time lost in thought and consuming cigarette after cigarette. "Tell me, Professor Coram," he said at last. "What is in that cupboard in the bureau?" Nothing that would help a thief, family papers,

“letters from my poor wife, diplomas of universities, which have done me on her. "Here is the key.”

You can look for yourself." Homes picked up the key and looked at it for an instant, then he handed it back. "No, I hardly think that it would help me," said he. "I should prefer to go quietly down to your garden and turn the whole matter over in my head. There is something to be said for the theory of suicide, which you have put forward. We must apologise for having intruded upon you, Professor Coram, and I promise that we won't

disturb you until after lunch. At 2 o'clock, we will come again and report to you anything which may have happened in the interval." Homes was curiously distray and we walked up and down the garden path for some time in silence. "Have you a clue?" I asked at last. "It depends upon those cigarettes that I smugged," said he. "It is possible that I am utterly mistaken. The cigarettes will show me my dear homes," I exclaimed.

"How, on earth, well, you may see for yourself. If not, there's no harm done. Of course, we always

have the optician clue to fall back upon, but I take a short cut when I can get it." "Ah, here is the good, Mrs. Marker. Let us enjoy five minutes of instructive conversation with her." I may have remarked before that Homes had, when he liked, a peculiarly ingratiating way with women, and that he very readily established terms of confidence with them. In half the time which he had named, he had captured the housekeeper's good will, and was chatting with her as if he had known

her for years. "Yes, Mr. Homes, it is, as you say, sir, he does smoke something terrible, all day, and sometimes all night, sir. I've seen that room of a morning, well, sir. He'd have thought it was a London fog. All young, Mr. Smith, he was a smoker, also, but not as bad as the professor. His health, well, I don't know, that it's better nor worse for the smoking. "Ah," said Homes, "but it kills the appetite." "Well, I don't know about that, sir. I suppose the

no breakfast this morning, and won't face his lunch after all the cigarettes I saw him consume."

“"Well, you're out there, sir, as it happens, for he ate a remarkable big breakfast this”

morning. I don't know, when I've known him, make a better one, and he's all that a good dish of cup that's for his lunch, I'm surprised myself, for since I came into that room yesterday, and saw young Mr. Smith lying there on the floor, I couldn't bear to look at food." "Well, it takes all sorts to make a world, and the professor hasn't let it take his appetite away." "We loited the morning away in the garden. Stanley Hopkins had gone down to the village to look into

some rumors of a strange woman who had been seen by some children on the chat and rode the previous

morning. As to my friend, all his usual energy seemed to have deserted him. I had never known

“him handle a case in such a half-hearted fashion. Even the news brought back by Hopkins that he had”

found the children, and that they had undoubtedly seen a woman exactly corresponding with Holmes's description, and wearing either spectacles or eyeglasses, failed to browse any sign of keen interest. He was more attentive when Susan, who waged upon us at lunch, volunteered the information that she believed, Mr. Smith had been out for a walk yesterday morning, and that he had only returned half an hour before the tragedy occurred. I could not myself see the bearing of this incident,

but I clearly perceived that Holmes was weaving it into the general scheme which he had formed in his

brain. Suddenly, he sprang from his chair and glanced at his watch. "To O'clock, gentlemen," said he, "we must go up and have it out with our friend, the professor." The old man had just finished his lunch, and certainly his empty dish bore evidence to the good appetite with which his housekeeper had credited him. He was, indeed, a weird figure, as he turned his white mane and his glowing eyes towards us, the eternal cigarette smoldered in

his mouth. He had been dressed and was seated in an armchair by the fire. "Well, Mr. Holmes, have you solved this mystery yet?" He shoved the large tin of cigarettes which stood on a table beside him towards my companion. Holmes stretched out his hand at the same moment, and between them they tipped the box over the edge. "For a minute or two, we were all on our knees, retrieving stray cigarettes from impossible places. When we rose again, I observed that Holmes's

eyes were shining and his cheeks tinned with colour, only at a crisis, have I seen those battle signals flying?" "Yes," said he. "I have solved it." Stanley Hopkins and I stared in amazement. Something like a snare quivered over the gaunt features of the old professor. "Indeed, in the garden?" "No, here, here, when?" "This instant!" "You are surely joking, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You compel me to tell you that this is too serious a matter to be treated in such a fashion."

"I have forged and tested every link of my chain, Professor Kaurum, and I am sure that it is sound." "What your motives are, or what exact parts you play in this strange business, I am not yet able to say. In a few minutes, I shall probably hear it from your own lips. Meanwhile, I will reconstruct what is past for your benefit so that you may know the information which I still require." "Elady, yesterday, entered your study. She came with the intention of

“possessing herself of certain documents, which were in your bureau. She had a key of her own.”

I have had an opportunity of examining yours, and I do not find that slight discoloration which these scratch made upon the varnish would have produced. You were not an accessory, therefore, and she came so far as I can read the evidence without your knowledge to rob you. The professor blew a cloud from his lips. "This is most interesting and instructive," said he,

become of her?" "I will endeavor to do so. In the first place she was seized by your secretary and

“stabbed him in order to escape. This catastrophe, I am inclined to regard as an unhappy accident,”

for I am convinced that the lady had no intention of inflicting so grievous and injury. An assassin does not come unarmed." Horrified by what she had done, she rushed wildly away from the scene of the tragedy. Unfortunately, for her, she had lost her glasses in the scuffle, and as she was extremely short-sighted, she was really helpless without them.

She ran down a corridor which she imagines to be that by which she had come. Both were lined with coconut mating, and it was only when it was too late that she understood that she had taken

“the wrong passage and that her retreat was cut off behind her. What was she to do? She could not go”

back. She could not remain where she was. She must go on. She went on. She mounted a stair, pushed open a door, and found herself in your room. The old man sat with his mouth open, staring wildly at homes. Amazement and fear were stamped upon his expressive features. Now, with an effort, he shrugged his shoulders and burst into insincere laughter.

"Oh, all very fine, Mr. Holmes," said he. "But there is one little floor in your splendid theory.

I was myself in my room, and I never left it during the day. I am aware of that professor,

“the corner, and you mean to say that I could lie upon that bed and not be aware that a woman had”

entered my room. I never said so. You were aware of it. You spoke with her. You recognized her. You aided her to escape. Again, the professor burst into high-keyed laughter. He had risen to his feet, and his eyes glowed like embers. "You are a mad!" he cried. "You are talking insanely. I have turned to escape. Where is she now?" She is there, said Holmes, and he pointed to a high bookcase in the corner of the room.

I saw the old man throw up his arms, a terrible convulsion passed over his grim face, and he fell back in his chair. At the same instant, the bookcase at which Holmes pointed, swung round upon a hinge, and a woman rushed out into the room. "You are right!" she cried in a strange foreign voice. "You are right. I am here!" She was brown with the dust and draped with the cobwebs which had come from the walls of her hiding place.

Her face, too, was streaked with grime, and at the best she could never have been handsome,

for she had the exact physical characteristics which Holmes had divined with, in addition, a long and obstinate chin. What with her natural blindness and what with the chain from dark to light, she stood as one dazed, blinking about her to see where and who we were. And yet in spite of all these disadvantages, there was a certain nobility in the woman's bearing, a gallantry in the defiant chin and in the upraised head which compelled something of respect and

admiration. Stanley Hopkins had laid his hand upon her arm and claimed her as his prisoner, but she waved him aside gently and yet with an overmastering dignity which compelled obedience. The old man lay back in his chair with a twitching face and stared at her with grudging eyes. "Yes, sir, I am your prisoner," she said. "From where I stood, I could hear everything, and I know that you have learned the truth. I confess it all. It was I who killed the young man,

but you are right. You who say it was an accident. I did not even know that it was a knife, which I held in my hand for, in my despair, I snatched anything from the table and struck at him to make him

I fear that you are far from well." She had turned a dreadful colour, the more ghastly under the dark

“dust streaks upon her face. She seated herself on the side of the bed, then she resumed.”

"I have only a little time here," she said, "but I would have you to know the whole truth. This man's wife, he is not an Englishman, he is a Russian. His name I will not tell

for the first time the old man stood. God bless you, Anna. He cried, "God bless you."

She cast a look of the deepest disdain in his direction. "Why should you cling so hard to that wretched life of your assurgies?" said she, "It has done harm to many and good to none, not even to yourself. However, it is not for me to cause the frail threads to be snapped before

“God's time. I have enough already upon my soul since I crossed the threshold of this”

cursed house. But I must speak, or I shall be too late. I have said gentlemen that I am this man's wife. He was 50 and I a foolish girl of 20 when we married. It was in a city of Russia, a university I will not name the place. God bless you, Anna. Mama, the old man, again. We were reformers, revolutionists, nihilists, you understand, he and I and many more. Then there came a time of trouble. Police officer was killed, many were arrested,

evidence was wanted and in order to save his own life and to earn a great reward, my husband, betrayed his own wife and his companions. Yet we were all arrested upon his confession. Some of us found our way to the gallows and some to Siberia. I was among these last, but my term was not for life. My husband came to England with his ill-gotten gains and has lived in quiet ever since knowing well that if the brotherhood knew

where he was, not a weak would pass before justice would be done. The old man reached out a trembling hand and helped himself to a cigarette.

"I am in your hands, Anna," said he. "You were always good to me.

I have not yet told you the height of his villainy," said she. Among our comrades of the order, there was one who was the friend of my heart. He was noble and selfish, loving, all that my husband was not. He hated violence. We were all guilty if that is guilt but he was not. He wrote for ever this waiting us from such a course. These letters would have saved him, so would my diary, in which from

day today I had entered both my feelings towards him and the view which each of us had taken. "My husband found and kept both diary and letters. He hid them and he tried hard to swear away the young man's life in this he failed, but Alexis was sent a convict to Siberia where

“now at this moment he works in a salt mine." "I think of that you villain. You villain?" "No. Now,”

at this very moment Alexis, a man whose name you are not worthy to speak works and lives like a slave, when you try to have your life in my hands and I let you go."

"You are always in noble woman, Anna," said the old man, puffing at his cigarette.

"She had risen, but she fell back again with a little cry of pain." "I must finish," she said.

government, would procure my friends release. I knew that my husband had come to England. After months of searching I discovered where he was, I knew that he still had the diary for when I was in Siberia. I had a letter from him once reproaching me and quoting some passages from its pages.

Yet I was sure that, with his revengeful nature, he would never give it to me of his own free will.

I must get it for myself." With this object, I engaged an agent from a private, detective firm who entered my husband's house as secretary. It was your second secretary, Sirgeus, the one who left you so hurriedly,

“he found that papers were kept in the cupboard and he got an impression of the key.”

He would not go, father. He furnished me with a plan of the house and he told me that in the forenoon the study was always empty as the secretary was employed up here.

So, at last, I took my courage in both hands and I came down to get the papers for myself.

I succeeded but at what I cost. I had just taken the papers and was locking the cupboard when the young man seized me. I had seen him already that morning. He had met me in the road and I had asked him to tell me where Professor Cordem lived, not knowing that he was in his employee. "Exactly!" "Exactly!" said Holmes. The secretary came back and told his employer of the woman he had met. Then, in his last breath, he tried to send a message that it was she that she, who

“he had just discussed with him. "You must let me speak," said the woman in an imperative voice.”

And her face contracted as if in pain. When he had fallen, I rushed from the room, chose the wrong door and found myself in my husband's room. He spoke of giving me up. I showed him that if he did so his life was in my hands. If he gave me to the law, I could give him to the brotherhood. It was not that I wished to live for my own sake, but it was that I desired to accomplish my purpose.

He knew that I would do what I said that his own fate was involved in mine. For that reason and for no other, he shielded me. He thrust me into that dark, hygiene place a relic of old days, no, no, only to himself. He took his meals in his own room and so was able to give me part of his food. It was agreed that when the police left the house I could slip away by night and come back no more, but in some way you have read our plans.

She tore from the bosom of her dress a small packet. "These are my last words," said she, "here is the packet which will save Alexis. I confide it to your honour and to your love of justice take it. You will deliver it at the Russian embassy. Now I have done my duty and stop her," cried Holmes. He had bounded across the room and had rinsed a small file from her hand. "Too late," she said, sinking back on the bed.

"Too late!" I took the poison before I left my hiding place.

“"My head swings. I am going. I charge you, sir. I will remember the packet."”

A simple case then yet in some ways an instructive one Holmes remarked as we traveled back to town. It hinted from the outset upon the Pansnay. But for the fortunate chance of the dying man having seized these I am not sure that we could ever have reached our solution. It was clear to me from the strength of the glasses that the wearer must have been very blind and helpless when deprived of them. When you asked me to believe that she walked along a narrow strip of

grass without once making a false step I remarked, as you may remember, that it was a note worthy performance. In my mind I sat down as an impossible performance, save in the unlikely case that she

had a second pair of glasses. I was forced therefore to seriously consider the hypothesis that she had

remained within the house. On perceiving the similarity of the two corridors it became clear that she

entered the professor's room. I was keenly on the alert therefore for whatever would bear out this

“supposition and I examined the room narrowly for anything in the shape of a hiding place.”

The carpet seemed continuous and firmly nailed so I dismissed the idea of a trap door. There might well be a recess behind the books. As you are aware such devices are common in old libraries. I observed that books were piled on the floor at all other points but that one bookcase

was left clear. This then might be the door. I could see no marks to guide me but the carpet was of

a done colour which lends itself very well to examination. I therefore smoked a great number of those excellent cigarettes and I dropped the ash all over the space in front of the suspected bookcase. It was a simple trick but exceedingly effective. I then went downstairs and I ascertained in your presence Watson without your perceiving the drift of my remarks that professor Coram's consumption

of food had increased as one would expect when he is supplying a second person. We then ascended

to the room again when by upsetting the cigarette box I obtained a very excellent view of the floor and was able to see quite clearly from the traces upon the cigarette ash that the prisoner had in our absence come out from her retreat. Well Hopkins here we are at Charing Cross and I congratulate you on having brought your case to a

“successful conclusion. You are going to headquarters no doubt. I think Watson, you and I will drive”

together to the Russian embassy. Next time on Sherlock Holmes' short stories we bring you the last Sherlock Holmes story that's Arthur Conan Doyle ever wrote. The adventure of Choskum Old Place, an ancient estate in rural Buccia hides a dark secret. When the Lord of the House starts acting strangely and his widowed sister becomes a recluse, head groom James Mason calls on Sherlock Holmes to investigate.

Sir Robert Norberton has staked everything on his horse winning an upcoming Darby, but how far is he willing to go to ensure it crosses the finish line? A hidden crypt, a mysterious late night visitor, and an eerie figure emerging from the family too,

“all point to a secret too dark to stay buried for long.”

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