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Page 77
"I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as
to the motive of the crime. He was tractable enough,
though his son was a perfect demon, ready to blow out
his own or anybody else's brains if he could have got
to his revolver. When Cunningham saw that the case
against him was so strong he lost all heart and made a
clean breast of everything. It seems that William had
secretly followed his two masters on the night when
they made their raid upon Mr. Acton's, and having thus
got them into his power, proceeded, under threats of
exposure, to levy blackmail upon them. Mr. Alec,
however, was a dangerous man to play games of that
sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius on his
part to see in the burglary scare which was convulsing
the country side an opportunity of plausibly getting
rid of the man whom he feared. William was decoyed up
and shot, and had they only got the whole of the note
and paid a little more attention to detail in the
accessories, it is very possible that suspicion might
never have been aroused."
"And the note?" I asked.
Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us.
If you will only come around
to the east gate you will
will very much surprise you and
be of the greatest service to you and also
to Annie Morrison. But say nothing to
anyone upon the matter
"It is very much the sort of thing that I expected,"
said he. "Of course, we do not yet know what the
relations may have been between Alec Cunningham,
William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The results shows
that the trap was skillfully baited. I am sure that
you cannot fail to be delighted with the traces of
heredity shown in the p's and in the tails of the g's.
The absence of the i-dots in the old man's writing is
also most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet
rest in the country has been a distinct success, and I
shall certainly return much invigorated to Baker
Street to-morrow."
Adventure VII
The Crooked Man
One summer night, a few months after my marriage, I
was seated by my own hearth smoking a last pipe and
nodding over a novel, for my day's work had been an
exhausting one. My wife had already gone upstairs,
and the sound of the locking of the hall door some
time before told me that the servants had also
retired. I had risen from my seat and was knocking
out the ashes of my pipe when I suddenly heard the
clang of the bell.
I looked at the clock. It was a quarter to twelve.
This could not be a visitor at so late an hour. A
patient, evidently, and possibly an all-night sitting.
With a wry face I went out into the hall and opened
the door. To my astonishment it was Sherlock Holmes
who stood upon my step.
"Ah, Watson," said he, "I hoped that I might not be
too late to catch you."
"My dear fellow, pray come in."
"You look surprised, and no wonder! Relieved, too, I
fancy! Hum! You still smoke the Arcadia mixture of
your bachelor days then! There's no mistaking that
fluffy ash upon your coat. It's easy to tell that you
have been accustomed to wear a uniform, Watson.
You'll never pass as a pure-bred civilian as long as
you keep that habit of carrying your handkerchief in
your sleeve. Could you put me up to-night?"
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