THE COMPLETE SHERLOCK HOLMES

                         ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES


                             THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

I HAD called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of
last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced,
elderly gentleman with fiery red hair.  With an apology for my intrusion, I
was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed
the door behind me.
     "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he
said cordially.
     "I was afraid that you were engaged."
     "So I am.  Very much so."
     "Then I can wait in the next room."
     "Not at all.  This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper
in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of
the utmost use to me in yours also."
     The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting,
with a quick little questioning glance from his small, fat-encircled eyes.
     "Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting
his finger-tips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods.  "I know,
my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the
conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life.  You have shown your relish
for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will
excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little
adventures."
     "Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I observed.
     "You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went
into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for
strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself,
which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination."
     "A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."
     "You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for
otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason
breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right.  Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson
here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a
narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened
to for some time.  You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique
things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller
crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any
positive crime has been committed.  As far as I have heard it is impossible
for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the
course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever
listened to.  Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to
recommence your narrative.  I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson
has not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the
story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips.  As a
rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am
able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my
memory.  In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to
the best of my belief, unique."
     The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little
pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his
great-coat.  As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust
forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the
man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the
indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.
     I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection.  Our visitor bore
every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous,
and slow.  He wore rather baggy gray shepherd's check trousers, a not
over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat
with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling
down as an ornament.  A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a
wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him.  Altogether, look as I
would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head,
and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.
     Sherlock Holmes's quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head
with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.  "Beyond the obvious facts
that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a
Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable
amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."
     Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the
paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
     "How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?" he
asked.  "How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour?  It's as
true as gospel, for I began as a ship's carpenter."
     "Your hands, my dear sir.  Your right hand is quite a size larger than
your left.  You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed."
     "Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"
     "I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an
arc-and-compass breastpin."
     "Ah, of course, I forgot that.  But the writing?"
     "What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five
inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest
it upon the desk?"
     "Well, but China?"
     "The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could
only have been done in China.  I have made a small study of tattoo marks and
have even contributed to the literature of the subject.  That trick of
staining the fishes' scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China.
When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the
matter becomes even more simple."
     Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily.  "Well, I never!" said he.  "I thought
at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing
in it, after all."
     "I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake in
explaining.  'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my poor little
reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid.  Can you
not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"
     "Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red finger planted
halfway down the column.  "Here it is.  This is what began it all.  You just
read it for yourself, sir."
     I took the paper from him and read as follows:

          TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE:
               On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of
          Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now another vacancy open
          which entitles a member of the League to a salary of L4 a week for
          purely nominal services.  All red-headed men who are sound in body
          and mind, and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible.
          Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the
          offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street.

     "What on earth does this mean?"  I ejaculated after I had twice read over
the extraordinary announcement.
     Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high
spirits.  "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?" said he.  "And now,
Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself, your
household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes.
You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date."
     "It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890.  Just two months ago."
     "Very good.  Now, Mr. Wilson?"
     "Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said
Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small pawnbroker's business at
Coburg Square, near the City.  It's not a very large affair, and of late years
it has not done more than just give me a living.  I used to be able to keep
two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but
that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the business."
     "What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.
     "His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth, either.  It's
hard to say his age.  I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I
know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I am able to
give him.  But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his
head?"
     "Why, indeed?  You seem most fortunate in having an employee who comes
under the full market price.  It is not a common experience among employers in
this age.  I don't know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your
advertisement."
     "Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson.  "Never was such a fellow
for photography.  Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving
his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to
develop his pictures.  That is his main fault, but on the whole he's a good
worker.  There's no vice in him."
     "He is still with you, I presume?"
     "Yes, sir.  He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking
and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the house, for I am a widower
and never had any family.  We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we
keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.
     "The first thing that put us out was that advertisement.  Spaulding, he
came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very paper in
his hand, and he says:
     "'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.'
     "'Why that?' I asks.
     "'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed
Men.  It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I
understand that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the
trustees are at their wits' end what to do with the money.  If my hair would
only change colour, here's a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.'
     "'Why, what is it, then?' I asked.  You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very
stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to
it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat.  In
that way I didn't know much of what was going on outside, and I was always
glad of a bit of news.
     "'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he asked
with his eyes open.
     "'Never.'
     "'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the
vacancies.'
     "'And what are they worth?' I asked.
     "'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it
need not interfere very much with one's other occupations.'
     "Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the
business has not been over-good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred
would have been very handy.
     "'Tell me all about it,' said I.
     "'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for yourself
that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply
for particulars.  As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an
American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways.  He
was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so
when he died it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands
of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy
berths to men whose hair is of that colour.  From all I hear it is splendid
pay and very little to do.'
     "'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who would
apply.'
     "'Not so many as you might think,' he answered.  'You see it is really
confined to Londoners, and to grown men.  This American had started from
London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn.  Then,
again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or
dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red.  Now, if you cared
to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be
worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred
pounds.'
     "Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my
hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there
was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man
that I had ever met.  Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I
thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters
for the day and to come right away with me.  He was very willing to have a
holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the address that was
given us in the advertisement.
     "I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes.  From north,
south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped
into the city to answer the advertisement.  Fleet Street was choked with
red-headed folk, and Pope's Court looked like a coster's orange barrow.  I
should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were
brought together by that single advertisement.  Every shade of colour they
were--straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as
Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured
tint.  When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair;
but Spaulding would not hear of it.  How he did it I could not imagine, but he
pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up
to the steps which led to the office.  There was a double stream upon the
stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in
as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office."
     "Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked Holmes as
his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff.  "Pray
continue your very interesting statement."
     "There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal
table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than
mine.  He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always
managed to find some fault in them which would disqualify them.  Getting a
vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all.  However, when
our turn came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of the
others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private
word with us.
     "'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is willing to
fill a vacancy in the League.'
     "'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered.  'He has every
requirement.  I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.'  He took a
step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt
quite bashful.  Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and
congratulated me warmly on my success.
     "'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he.  'You will, however, I am
sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.'  With that he seized my
hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain.  'There is
water in your eyes,' said he as he released me.  'I perceive that all is as it
should be.  But we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs
and once by paint.  I could tell you tales of cobbler's wax which would
disgust you with human nature.'  He stepped over to the window and shouted
through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled.  A groan of
disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in different
directions until there was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of
the manager.
     "'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the
pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor.  Are you a married man,
Mr. Wilson?  Have you a family?'
     "I answered that I had not.
     "His face fell immediately.
     "'Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very serious indeed!  I am sorry to
hear you say that.  The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of
the red-heads as well as for their maintenance.  It is exceedingly unfortunate
that you should be a bachelor.'
     "My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to
have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few minutes he
said that it would be all right.
     "'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be fatal, but we
must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as yours.
When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?'
     "'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,' said I.
     "'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent Spaulding.  'I
should be able to look after that for you.'
     "'What would be the hours?' I asked.
     "'Ten to two.'
     "Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes,
especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day; so it
would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings.  Besides, I knew
that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see to anything that
turned up.
     "'That would suit me very well,' said I.  'And the pay?'
     "'Is L4 a week.'
     "'And the work?'
     "'Is purely nominal.'
     "'What do you call purely nominal?'
     "'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the
whole time.  If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever.  The will
is very clear upon that point.  You don't comply with the conditions if you
budge from the office during that time.'
     "'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,' said I.
     "'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither sickness nor
business nor anything else.  There you must stay, or you lose your billet.'
     "'And the work?'
     "'Is to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica.  There is the first volume
of it in that press.  You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper,
but we provide this table and chair.  Will you be ready to-morrow?'
     "'Certainly,' I answered.
     "'Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more
on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain.'  He
bowed me out of the room, and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing
what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune.
     "Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low
spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be
some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine.
It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could make such a will, or that
they would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the
Encyclopaedia Britannica.  Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up,
but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing.  However, in the
morning I determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle
of ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started
off for Pope's Court.
     "Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible.
The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that
I got fairly to work.  He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left
me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all was right with me.
At two o'clock he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had
written, and locked the door of the office after me.
     "This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came
in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week's work.  It was the
same next week, and the same the week after.  Every morning I was there at
ten, and every afternoon I left at two.  By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to
coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in
at all.  Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for
I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one, and
suited me so well, that I would not risk the loss of it.
     "Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and
Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that
I might get on to the B's before very long.  It cost me something in foolscap,
and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings.  And then suddenly
the whole business came to an end."
     "To an end?"
     "Yes, sir.  And no later than this morning.  I went to my work as usual
at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square of
card-board hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack.  Here it is,
and you can read for yourself."
     He held up a piece of white card-board about the size of a sheet of
note-paper.  It read in this fashion:

                            THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE
                                     IS
                                  DISSOLVED.
                               October 9, 1890.

     Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face
behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every
other consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter.
     "I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our client,
flushing up to the roots of his flaming head.  "If you can do nothing better
than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."
     "No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had
half risen.  "I really wouldn't miss your case for the world.  It is most
refreshingly unusual.  But there is, if you will excuse my saying so,
something just a little funny about it.  Pray what steps did you take when you
found the card upon the door?"
     "I was staggered, sir.  I did not know what to do.  Then I called at the
offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it.  Finally, I
went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground-floor, and I
asked him if he could tell me what had become of the Red-headed League.  He
said that he had never heard of any such body.  Then I asked him who Mr.
Duncan Ross was.  He answered that the name was new to him.
     "'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'
     "'What, the red-headed man?'
     "'Yes.'
     "'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris.  He was a solicitor and was
using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready.
He moved out yesterday.'
     "'Where could I find him?'
     "'Oh, at his new offices.  He did tell me the address.  Yes, 17 King
Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'
     "I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a
manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either
Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."
     "And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.
     "I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my
assistant.  But he could not help me in any way.  He could only say that if I
waited I should hear by post.  But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes.
I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard
that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it,
I came right away to you."
     "And you did very wisely," said Holmes.  "Your case is an exceedingly
remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it.  From what you have told
me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at
first sight appear."
     "Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson.  "Why, I have lost four pound a
week."
     "As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I do not see
that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league.  On the
contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some L30, to say nothing of the
minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the
letter A.  You have lost nothing by them."
     "No, sir.  But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what
their object was in playing this prank--if it was a prank--upon me.  It was a
pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds."
     "We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you.  And, first, one or
two questions, Mr. Wilson.  This assistant of yours who first called your
attention to the advertisement--how long had he been with you?"
     "About a month then."
     "How did he come?"
     "In answer to an advertisement."
     "Was he the only applicant?"
     "No, I had a dozen."
     "Why did you pick him?"
     "Because he was handy and would come cheap."
     "At half-wages, in fact."
     "Yes."
     "What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"
     "Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though
he's not short of thirty.  Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead."
     Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement.  "I thought as
much," said he.  "Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for
earrings?"
     "Yes, sir.  He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he was a
lad."
     "Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought.  "He is still with
you?"
     "Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."
     "And has your business been attended to in your absence?"
     "Nothing to complain of, sir.  There's never very much to do of a
morning."
     "That will do, Mr. Wilson.  I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon
the subject in the course of a day or two.  To-day is Saturday, and I hope
that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."
     "Well, Watson," said Holmes when our visitor had left us, "what do you
make of it all?"
     "I make nothing of it," I answered frankly.  "It is a most mysterious
business."
     "As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the less
mysterious it proves to be.  It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which
are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to
identify.  But I must be prompt over this matter."
     "What are you going to do, then?" I asked.
     "To smoke," he answered.  "It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg
that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes."  He curled himself up in his
chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat
with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of
some strange bird.  I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep,
and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with
the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the
mantelpiece.
     "Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he remarked.
"What do you think, Watson?  Could your patients spare you for a few hours?"
     "I have nothing to do to-day.  My practice is never very absorbing."
     "Then put on your hat and come.  I am going through the City first, and
we can have some lunch on the way.  I observe that there is a good deal of
German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian
or French.  It is introspective, and I want to introspect.  Come along!"
     We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk
took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had
listened to in the morning.  It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place,
where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small
railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded
laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial
atmosphere.  Three gilt balls and a brown board with "JABEZ WILSON" in white
letters, upon a corner house, announced the place where our red-headed client
carried on his business.  Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head
on one side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between
puckered lids.  Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to
the corner, still looking keenly at the houses.  Finally he returned to the
pawnbroker's, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick
two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked.  It was instantly
opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step
in.
     "Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you would go from
here to the Strand."
     "Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant promptly, closing the
door.
     "Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away.  "He is, in my
judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that
he has not a claim to be third.  I have known something of him before."
     "Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good deal in
this mystery of the Red-headed League.  I am sure that you inquired your way
merely in order that you might see him."
     "Not him."
     "What then?"
     "The knees of his trousers."
     "And what did you see?"
     "What I expected to see."
     "Why did you beat the pavement?"
     "My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk.  We are
spies in an enemy's country.  We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.  Let us
now explore the parts which lie behind it."
     The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from
the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the
front of a picture does to the back.  It was one of the main arteries which
conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west.  The roadway was
blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward
and outward, while the foot-paths were black with the hurrying swarm of
pedestrians.  It was difficult to realize as we looked at the line of fine
shops and stately business premises that they really abutted on the other side
upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just quitted.
     "Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the
line, "I should like just to remember the order of the houses here.  It is a
hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London.  There is Mortimer's, the
tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and
Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building
depot.  That carries us right on to the other block.  And now, Doctor, we've
done our work, so it's time we had some play.  A sandwich and a cup of coffee,
and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony,
and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."
     My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very
capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit.  All the afternoon he
sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his
long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his
languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes, the sleuth-hound, Holmes
the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible
to conceive.  In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted
itself, and his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often
thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which
occasionally predominated in him.  The swing of his nature took him from
extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so
truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his
armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions.  Then it was
that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his
brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, until those
who were unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a man
whose knowledge was not that of other mortals.  When I saw him that afternoon
so enwrapped in the music at St. James's Hall I felt that an evil time might
be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.
     "You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he remarked as we emerged.
     "Yes, it would be as well."
     "And I have some business to do which will take some hours.  This
business at Coburg Square is serious."
     "Why serious?"
     "A considerable crime is in contemplation.  I have every reason to
believe that we shall be in time to stop it.  But to-day being Saturday rather
complicates matters.  I shall want your help to-night."
     "At what time?"
     "Ten will be early enough."
     "I shall be at Baker Street at ten."
     "Very well.  And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so
kindly put your army revolver in your pocket."  He waved his hand, turned on
his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.
     I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always
oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock
Holmes.  Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and
yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had
happened but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business was
still confused and grotesque.  As I drove home to my house in Kensington I
thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of
the Encyclopaedia down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous
words with which he had parted from me.  What was this nocturnal expedition,
and why should I go armed?  Where were we going, and what were we to do?  I
had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's assistant was a
formidable man--a man who might play a deep game.  I tried to puzzle it out,
but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an
explanation.
     It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way
across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street.  Two hansoms
were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of
voices from above.  On entering his room I found Holmes in animated
conversation with two men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the
official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a
very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.
     "Ha!  our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket
and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack.  "Watson, I think you know
Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard?  Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is
to be our companion in to-night's adventure."
     "We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said Jones in his
consequential way.  "Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase.
All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down."
     "I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase," observed
Mr. Merryweather gloomily.
     "You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the
police agent loftily.  "He has his own little methods, which are, if he won't
mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the
makings of a detective in him.  It is not too much to say that once or twice,
as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been
more nearly correct than the official force."
     "Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the stranger with
deference.  "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber.  It is the first Saturday
night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber."
     "I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will play for a
higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be
more exciting.  For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some L30,000; and
for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands."
     "John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger.  He's a young man,
Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather
have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London.  He's a remarkable
man, is young John Clay.  His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has
been to Eton and Oxford.  His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though
we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man
himself.  He'll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to
build an orphanage in Cornwall the next.  I've been on his track for years and
have never set eyes on him yet."
     "I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night.  I've
had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that
he is at the head of his profession.  It is past ten, however, and quite time
that we started.  If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will
follow in the second."
     Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay
back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon.  We
rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into
Farrington Street.
     "We are close there now," my friend remarked.  "This fellow Merryweather
is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter.  I thought it as
well to have Jones with us also.  He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute
imbecile in his profession.  He has one positive virtue.  He is as brave as a
bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone.  Here
we are, and they are waiting for us."
     We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found
ourselves in the morning.  Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the
guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a
side door, which he opened for us.  Within there was a small corridor, which
ended in a very massive iron gate.  This also was opened, and led down a
flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate.
Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a
dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge
vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.
     "You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as he held up
the lantern and gazed about him.
     "Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the
flags which lined the floor.  "Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!" he
remarked, looking up in surprise.
     "I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes severely.
"You have already imperilled the whole success of our expedition.  Might I beg
that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not
to interfere?"
     The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very
injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the
floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely
the cracks between the stones.  A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he
sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket.
     "We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they can hardly
take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.  Then they will not
lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will
have for their escape.  We are at present, Doctor--as no doubt you have
divined--in the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London
banks.  Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to
you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take
a considerable interest in this cellar at present."
     "It is our French gold," whispered the director.  "We have had several
warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."
     "Your French gold?"
     "Yes.  We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and
borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France.  It has
become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it
is still lying in our cellar.  The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000
napoleons packed between layers of lead foil.  Our reserve of bullion is much
larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the
directors have had misgivings upon the subject."      "Which were very well
justified," observed Holmes.  "And now it is time that we arranged our little
plans.  I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head.  In the
meantime, Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern."
     "And sit in the dark?"
     "I am afraid so.  I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I
thought that, as we were a partie carree, you might have your rubber after
all.  But I see that the enemy's preparations have gone so far that we cannot
risk the presence of a light.  And, first of all, we must choose our
positions.  These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a
disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful.  I shall stand
behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those.  Then, when I
flash a light upon them, close in swiftly.  If they fire, Watson, have no
compunction about shooting them down."
     I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind
which I crouched.  Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and
left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute darkness as I have never before
experienced.  The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was
still there, ready to flash out at a moment's notice.  To me, with my nerves
worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and
subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.
     "They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes.  "That is back through the
house into Saxe-Coburg Square.  I hope that you have done what I asked you,
Jones?"
     "I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."
     "Then we have stopped all the holes.  And now we must be silent and
wait."
     What a time it seemed!  From comparing notes afterwards it was but an
hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost
gone, and the dawn be breaking above us.  My limbs were weary and stiff, for I
feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest
pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the
gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier
in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director.
From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor.
Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.
     At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement.  Then it
lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or
sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared; a white, almost womanly
hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area of light.  For a
minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the
floor.  Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark
again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones.
     Its disappearance, however, was but momentary.  With a rending, tearing
sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a
square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern.  Over the
edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and
then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high
and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge.  In another instant he
stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and
small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.
     "It's all clear," he whispered.  "Have you the chisel and the bags?
Great Scott!  Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"
     Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar.
The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones
clutched at his skirts.  The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but
Holmes's hunting crop came down on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked
upon the stone floor.
     "It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly.  "You have no chance at
all."
     "So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness.  "I fancy that
my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails."
     "There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.
     "Oh, indeed!  You seem to have done the thing very completely.  I must
compliment you."
     "And I you," Holmes answered.  "Your red-headed idea was very new and
effective."
     "You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones.  "He's quicker at
climbing down holes than I am.  Just hold out while I fix the derbies."
     "I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands," remarked our
prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists.  "You may not be aware
that I have royal blood in my veins.  Have the goodness, also, when you
address me always to say 'sir' and 'please.'"
     "All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger.  "Well, would you
please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to
the police-station?"
     "That is better," said John Clay serenely.  He made a sweeping bow to the
three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.
     "Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the
cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you.  There is no
doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of
the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my
experience."
     "I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John
Clay," said Holmes.  "I have been at some small expense over this matter,
which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by
having had an experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very
remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League."

     "You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the morning as we
sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it was perfectly obvious
from the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business
of the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia, must
be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours
every day.  It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be
difficult to suggest a better.  The method was no doubt suggested to Clay's
ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice's hair.  The L4 a week was a
lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for
thousands?  They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office,
the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to
secure his absence every morning in the week.  From the time that I heard of
the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had
some strong motive for securing the situation."
     "But how could you guess what the motive was?"
     "Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar
intrigue.  That, however, was out of the question.  The man's business was a
small one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such
elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at.  It must,
then, be something out of the house.  What could it be?  I thought of the
assistant's fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the
cellar.  The cellar!  There was the end of this tangled clue.  Then I made
inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with
one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London.  He was doing
something in the cellar--something which took many hours a day for months on
end.  What could it be, once more?  I could think of nothing save that he was
running a tunnel to some other building.
     "So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action.  I surprised
you by beating upon the pavement with my stick.  I was ascertaining whether
the cellar stretched out in front or behind.  It was not in front.  Then I
rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it.  We have had some
skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before.  I hardly looked
at his face.  His knees were what I wished to see.  You must yourself have
remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were.  They spoke of those hours
of burrowing.  The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for.  I
walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our
friend's premises, and felt that I had solved my problem.  When you drove home
after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the
bank directors, with the result that you have seen."
     "And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?" I
asked.
     "Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they
cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence--in other words, that they
had completed their tunnel.  But it was essential that they should use it
soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed.  Saturday
would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for
their escape.  For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night."
     "You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration.
"It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true."
     "It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning.  "Alas!  I already feel
it closing in upon me.  My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the
commonplaces of existence.  These little problems help me to do so."
     "And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.
     He shrugged his shoulders.  "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some
little use," he remarked.  "'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout,' as
Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."