He had rung loudly at the door of a great dark house in thecentre of Poultney Square. It was opened immediately, and thefigure of a tall woman was outlined against the dim-lit hall.
“Well, what do you want?” she asked sharply, peering at usthrough the darkness.
“I want to speak to Dr. Shlessinger,” said Holmes.
“There is no such person here,” she answered, and tried to closethe door, but Holmes had jammed it with his foot.
“Well, I want to see the man who lives here, whatever he maycall himself,” said Holmes firmly.
She hesitated. Then she threw open the door. “Well, come in!”
said she. “My husband is not afraid to face any man in the world.”
She closed the door behind us and showed us into a sitting-roomon the right side of the hall, turning up the gas as she left us. “Mr.
Peters will be with you in an instant,” she said.
Her words were literally true, for we had hardly time to lookaround the dusty and moth-eaten apartment in which we foundourselves before the door opened and a big, clean-shaven baldheadedman stepped lightly into the room. He had a large red face,with pendulous cheeks, and a general air of superficial benevolencewhich was marred by a cruel, vicious mouth.
“There is surely some mistake here, gentlemen,” he said in anunctuous, make-everything-easy voice. “I fancy that you have beenmisdirected. Possibly if you tried farther down the street—”
“That will do; we have no time to waste,” said my companionfirmly. “You are Henry Peters, of Adelaide, late the Rev. Dr.
Shlessinger, of Baden and South America. I am as sure of that asthat my own name is Sherlock Holmes.”
Peters, as I will now call him, started and stared hard at hisformidable pursuer. “I guess your name does not frighten me, Mr.
Holmes,” said he coolly. “When a man’s conscience is easy youcan’t rattle him. What is your business in my house?”
“I want to know what you have done with the Lady FrancesCarfax, whom you brought away with you from Baden.”
“I’d be very glad if you could tell me where that lady maybe,” Peters answered coolly. “I’ve a bill against her for a nearlya hundred pounds, and nothing to show for it but a couple oftrumpery pendants that the dealer would hardly look at. Sheattached herself to Mrs. Peters and me at Baden—it is a fact thatI was using another name at the time—and she stuck on to usuntil we came to London. I paid her bill and her ticket. Once inLondon, she gave us the slip, and, as I say, left these out-of-datejewels to pay her bills. You find her, Mr. Holmes, and I’m yourdebtor.”
“I mean to find her,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I’m going throughthis house till I do find her.”
“Where is your warrant?”
Holmes half drew a revolver from his pocket. “This will have toserve till a better one comes.”
“Why, you are a common burglar.”
“So you might describe me,” said Holmes cheerfully. “Mycompanion is also a dangerous ruffian. And together we are goingthrough your house.”
Our opponent opened the door.
“Fetch a policeman, Annie!” said he. There was a whisk offeminine skirts down the passage, and the hall door was openedand shut.
“Our time is limited, Watson,” said Holmes. “If you try to stopus, Peters, you will most certainly get hurt. Where is that coffinwhich was brought into your house?”
“What do you want with the coffin? It is in use. There is a bodyin it.”
“I must see the body.”
“Never with my consent.”
“Then without it.” With a quick movement Holmes pushed thefellow to one side and passed into the hall. A door half openedstood immediately before us. We entered. It was the diningroom.
On the table, under a half-lit chandelier, the coffin waslying. Holmes turned up the gas and raised the lid. Deep down inthe recesses of the coffin lay an emaciated figure. The glare fromthe lights above beat down upon an aged and withered face. Byno possible process of cruelty, starvation, or disease could thisworn-out wreck be the still beautiful Lady Frances. Holmes’s faceshowed his amazement, and also his relief.
“Thank God!” he muttered. “It’s someone else.”
“Ah, you’ve blundered badly for once, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,”
said Peters, who had followed us into the room.
“Who is the dead woman?”
“Well, if you really must know, she is an old nurse of my wife’s,Rose Spender by name, whom we found in the Brixton WorkhouseInfirmary. We brought her round here, called in Dr. Horsom, of 13Firbank Villas—mind you take the address, Mr. Holmes—and hadher carefully tended, as Christian folk should. On the third day shedied—certificate says senile decay—but that’s only the doctor’sopinion, and of course you know better. We ordered her funeral tobe carried out by Stimson and Co., of the Kennington Road, whowill bury her at eight o’clock to-morrow morning. Can you pickany hole in that, Mr. Holmes? You’ve made a silly blunder, and youmay as well own up to it. I’d give something for a photograph ofyour gaping, staring face when you pulled aside that lid expectingto see the Lady Frances Carfax and only found a poor old womanof ninety.”
Holmes’s expression was as impassive as ever under the jeersof his antagonist, but his clenched hands betrayed his acuteannoyance.
“I am going through your house,” said he.
“Are you, though!” cried Peters as a woman’s voice and heavysteps sounded in the passage. “We’ll soon see about that. This way,officers, if you please. These men have forced their way into myhouse, and I cannot get rid of them. Help me to put them out.”
A sergeant and a constable stood in the doorway. Holmes drewhis card from his case.
“This is my name and address. This is my friend, Dr. Watson.”
“Bless you, sir, we know you very well,” said the sergeant, “butyou can’t stay here without a warrant.”
“Of course not. I quite understand that.”
“Arrest him!” cried Peters.
“We know where to lay our hands on this gentleman if he iswanted,” said the sergeant majestically, “but you’ll have to go, Mr.
Holmes.”
“Yes, Watson, we shall have to go.”
A minute later we were in the street once more. Holmes wasas cool as ever, but I was hot with anger and humiliation. Thesergeant had followed us.
