THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES

                               THE SIGN OF FOUR


                                  Chapter 2

                          THE STATEMENT OF THE CASE

MISS MORSTAN entered the room with a firm step and an outward composure of
manner.  She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well gloved, and dressed
in the most perfect taste.  There was, however, a plainness and simplicity
about her costume which bore with it a suggestion of limited means.  The dress
was a sombre grayish beige, untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small
turban of the same dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white feather in
the side.  Her face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of
complexion, but her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes
were singularly spiritual and sympathetic.  In an experience of women which
extends over many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked
upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature.  I
could not but observe that as she took the seat which Sherlock Holmes placed
for her, her lip trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every sign of
intense inward agitation.
     "I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled my
employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication.
She was much impressed by your kindness and skill."
     "Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully.  "I believe that I was
of some slight service to her.  The case, however, as I remember it, was a
very simple one."
     "She did not think so.  But at least you cannot say the same of mine.  I
can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly inexplicable, than the
situation in which I find myself."
     Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened.  He leaned forward in
his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his
clear-cut, hawklike features.
     "State your case," said he in brisk business tones.
     I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.
     "You will, I am sure, excuse me," I said, rising from my chair.
     To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to detain me.
     "If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stop, he might be of
inestimable service to me."
     I relapsed into my chair.
     "Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these.  My father was an officer
in an Indian regiment, who sent me home when I was quite a child.  My mother
was dead, and I had no relative in England.  I was placed, however, in a
comfortable boarding establishment at Edinburgh, and there I remained until I
was seventeen years of age.  In the year 1878 my father, who was senior
captain of his regiment, obtained twelve months' leave and came home.  He
telegraphed to me from London that he had arrived all safe and directed me to
come down at once, giving the Langham Hotel as his address.  His message, as I
remember, was full of kindness and love.  On reaching London I drove to the
Langham and was informed that Captain Morstan was staying there, but that he
had gone out the night before and had not returned.  I waited all day without
news of him.  That night, on the advice of the manager of the hotel, I
communicated with the police, and next morning we advertised in all the
papers.  Our inquiries led to no result; and from that day to this no word has
ever been heard of my unfortunate father.  He came home with his heart full of
hope to find some peace, some comfort, and instead-- --"
     She put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short the sentence.
     "The date?" asked Holmes, opening his notebook.
     "He disappeared upon the third of December, 1878--nearly ten years ago."
     "His luggage?"
     "Remained at the hotel.  There was nothing in it to suggest a clue--some
clothes, some books, and a considerable number of curiosities from the Andaman
Islands.  He had been one of the officers in charge of the convict-guard
there."
     "Had he any friends in town?"
     "Only one that we know of--Major Sholto, of his own regiment, the
Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry.  The major had retired some little time before
and lived at Upper Norwood.  We communicated with him, of course, but he did
not even know that his brother officer was in England."
     "A singular case," remarked Holmes.
     "I have not yet described to you the most singular part.  About six years
ago--to be exact, upon the fourth of May, 1882--an advertisement appeared in
the Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan, and stating that it
would be to her advantage to come forward.  There was no name or address
appended.  I had at that time just entered the family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester
in the capacity of governess.  By her advice I published my address in the
advertisement column.  The same day there arrived through the post a small
cardboard box addressed to me, which I found to contain a very large and
lustrous pearl.  No word of writing was enclosed.  Since then every year upon
the same date there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar
pearl, without any clue as to the sender.  They have been pronounced by an
expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value.  You can see for
yourself that they are very handsome."
     She opened a flat box as she spoke and showed me six of the finest pearls
that I had ever seen.
     "Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes.  "Has
anything else occurred to you?"
     "Yes, and no later than to-day.  That is why I have come to you.  This
morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for yourself."
     "Thank you," said Holmes.  "The envelope, too, please.  Post-mark,
London, S. W.  Date, July 7.  Hum!  Man's thumb-mark on corner--probably
postman.  Best quality paper.  Envelopes at sixpence a packet.  Particular man
in his stationery.  No address.

          "Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre
          to-night at seven o'clock.  If you are distrustful bring two
          friends.  You are a wronged woman and shall have justice.  Do not
          bring police.  If you do, all will be in vain.  Your unknown friend.

Well, really, this is a very pretty little mystery!  What do you intend to do,
Miss Morstan?"
     "That is exactly what I want to ask you."
     "Then we shall most certainly go--you and I and--yes, why Dr. Watson is
the very man.  Your correspondent says two friends.  He and I have worked
together before."
     "But would he come?" she asked with something appealing in her voice and
expression.
     "I shall be proud and happy," said I fervently, "if I can be of any
service."
     "You are both very kind," she answered.  "I have led a retired life and
have no friends whom I could appeal to.  If I am here at six it will do, I
suppose?"
     "You must not be later," said Holmes.  "There is one other point,
however.  Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box addresses?"
     "I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of paper.
     "You are certainly a model client.  You have the correct intuition.  Let
us see, now."  He spread out the papers upon the table and gave little darting
glances from one to the other.  "They are disguised hands, except the letter,"
he said presently; "but there can be no question as to the authorship.  See
how the irrepressible Greek e will break out, and see the twirl of the final
s.  They are undoubtedly by the same person.  I should not like to suggest
false hopes, Miss Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this hand and
that of your father?"
     "Nothing could be more unlike."
     "I expected to hear you say so.  We shall look out for you, then, at six.
Pray allow me to keep the papers.  I may look into the matter before then.  It
is only half-past three.  Au revoir, then."
     "Au revoir," said our visitor; and with a bright, kindly glance from one
to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and hurried away.
     Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly down the street
until the gray turban and white feather were but a speck in the sombre crowd.
     "What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion.
     He had lit his pipe again and was leaning back with drooping eyelids.
"Is she?" he said languidly; "I did not observe."
     "You really are an automaton--a calculating machine," I cried.  "There is
something positively inhuman in you at times."
     He smiled gently.
     "It is of the first importance," he cried, "not to allow your judgment to
be biased by personal qualities.  A client is to me a mere unit, a factor in a
problem.  The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning.  I
assure you that the most winning woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning
three little children for their insurance-money, and the most repellent 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.