Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle


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Page 145

But I waited for none of the landlord's explanations.
In a tingle of fear I was already running down the
village street, and making for the path which I had so
lately descended. It had taken me an hour to come
down. For all my efforts two more had passed before I
found myself at the fall of Reichenbach once more.
There was Holmes's Alpine-stock still leaning against
the rock by which I had left him. But there was no
sign of him, and it was in vain that I shouted. My
only answer was my own voice reverberating in a
rolling echo from the cliffs around me.

It was the sight of that Alpine-stock which turned me
cold and sick. He had not gone to Rosenlaui, then.
He had remained on that three-foot path, with sheer
wall on one side and sheer drop on the other, until
his enemy had overtaken him. The young Swiss had gone
too. He had probably been in the pay of Moriarty, and
had left the two men together. And then what had
happened? Who was to tell us what had happened then?

I stood for a minute or two to collect myself, for I
was dazed with the horror of the thing. Then I began
to think of Holmes's own methods and to try to
practise them in reading this tragedy. It was, alas,
only too easy to do. During our conversation we had
not gone to the end of the path, and the Alpine-stock
marked the place where we had stood. The blackish
soil is kept forever soft by the incessant drift of
spray, and a bird would leave its tread upon it. Two
lines of footmarks were clearly marked along the
farther end of the path, both leading away from me.
There were none returning. A few yards from the end
the soil was all ploughed up into a patch of mud, and
the branches and ferns which fringed the chasm were
torn and bedraggled. I lay upon my face and peered
over with the spray spouting up all around me. It had
darkened since I left, and now I could only see here
and there the glistening of moisture upon the black
walls, and far away down at the end of the shaft the
gleam of the broken water. I shouted; but only the
same half-human cry of the fall was borne back to my
ears.

But it was destined that I should after all have a
last word of greeting from my friend and comrade. I
have said that his Alpine-stock had been left leaning
against a rock which jutted on to the path. From the
top of this bowlder the gleam of something bright
caught my eye, and, raising my hand, I found that it
came from the silver cigarette-case which he used to
carry. As I took it up a small square of paper upon
which it had lain fluttered down on to the ground.
Unfolding it, I found that it consisted of three pages
torn from his note-book and addressed to me. It was
characteristic of the man that the direction was a
precise, and the writing as firm and clear, as though
it had been written in his study.

My dear Watson [it said], I write these few lines
through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my
convenience for the final discussion of those
questions which lie between us. He has been giving me
a sketch of the methods by which he avoided the
English police and kept himself informed of our
movements. They certainly confirm the very high
opinion which I had formed of his abilities. I am
pleased to think that I shall be able to free society
from any further effects of his presence, though I
fear that it is at a cost which will give pain to my
friends, and especially, my dear Watson, to you. I
have already explained to you, however, that my career
had in any case reached its crisis, and that no
possible conclusion to it could be more congenial to
me than this. Indeed, if I may make a full confession
to you, I was quite convinced that the letter from
Meiringen was a hoax, and I allowed you to depart on
that errand under the persuasion that some development
of this sort would follow. Tell Inspector Patterson
that the papers which he needs to convict the gang are
in pigeonhole M., done up in a blue envelope and
inscribed "Moriarty." I made every disposition of my
property before leaving England, and handed it to my
brother Mycroft. Pray give my greetings to Mrs.
Watson, and believe me to be, my dear fellow,

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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Fri 2nd Jan 2026, 10:51