“Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but that’s the law.”
“Exactly, Sergeant, you could not do otherwise.”
“I expect there was good reason for your presence there. Ifthere is anything I can do—”
“It’s a missing lady, Sergeant, and we think she is in that house. Iexpect a warrant presently.”
“Then I’ll keep my eye on the parties, Mr. Holmes. If anythingcomes along, I will surely let you know.”
It was only nine o’clock, and we were off full cry upon the trailat once. First we drove to Brixton Workhoused Infirmary, wherewe found that it was indeed the truth that a charitable couple hadcalled some days before, that they had claimed an imbecile oldwoman as a former servant, and that they had obtained permissionto take her away with them. No surprise was expressed at the newsthat she had since died.
The doctor was our next goal. He had been called in, had foundthe woman dying of pure senility, had actually seen her pass away,and had signed the certificate in due form. “I assure you thateverything was perfectly normal and there was no room for foulplay in the matter,” said he. Nothing in the house had struck him assuspicious save that for people of their class it was remarkable thatthey should have no servant. So far and no further went the doctor.
Finally we found our way to Scotland Yard. There had beendifficulties of procedure in regard to the warrant. Some delay wasinevitable. The magistrate’s signature might not be obtained untilnext morning. If Holmes would call about nine he could go downwith Lestrade and see it acted upon. So ended the day, save thatnear midnight our friend, the sergeant, called to say that he hadseen flickering lights here and there in the windows of the greatdark house, but that no one had left it and none had entered. Wecould but pray for patience and wait for the morrow.
Sherlock Holmes was too irritable for conversation and toorestless for sleep. I left him smoking hard, with his heavy, darkbrows knotted together, and his long, nervous fingers tappingupon the arms of his chair, as he turned over in his mind everypossible solution of the mystery. Several times in the course of thenight I heard him prowling about the house. Finally, just after Ihad been called in the morning, he rushed into my room. He wasin his dressing-gown, but his pale, hollow-eyed face told me thathis night had been a sleepless one.
“What time was the funeral? Eight, was it not?” he asked eagerly.
“Well, it is 7:20 now. Good heavens, Watson, what has becomeof any brains that God has given me? Quick, man, quick! It’s lifeor death—a hundred chances on death to one on life. I’ll neverforgive myself, never, if we are too late!”
Five minutes had not passed before we were flying in a hansomdown Baker Street. But even so it was twenty-five to eight as wepassed Big Ben, and eight struck as we tore down the BrixtonRoad. But others were late as well as we. Ten minutes after thehour the hearse was still standing at the door of the house, andeven as our foaming horse came to a halt the coffin, supported bythree men, appeared on the threshold. Holmes darted forward andbarred their way.
“Take it back!” he cried, laying his hand on the breast of theforemost. “Take it back this instant!”
“What the devil do you mean? Once again I ask you, where isyour warrant?” shouted the furious Peters, his big red face glaringover the farther end of the coffin.
“The warrant is on its way. The coffin shall remain in the houseuntil it comes.”
The authority in Holmes’s voice had its effect upon the bearers.
Peters had suddenly vanished into the house, and they obeyed thesenew orders. “Quick, Watson, quick! Here is a screw-driver!” heshouted as the coffin was replaced upon the table. “Here’s one foryou, my man! A sovereign if the lid comes off in a minute! Ask noquestions—work away! That’s good! Another! And another! Nowpull all together! It’s giving! It’s giving! Ah, that does it at last.”
With a united effort we tore off the coffin-lid. As we did sothere came from the inside a stupefying and overpowering smellof chloroform. A body lay within, its head all wreathed in cottonwool,which had been soaked in the narcotic. Holmes plucked itoff and disclosed the statuesque face of a handsome and spiritualwoman of middle age. In an instant he had passed his arm roundthe figure and raised her to a sitting position.
“Is she gone, Watson? Is there a spark left? Surely we are not toolate!”
For half an hour it seemed that we were. What with actualsuffocation, and what with the poisonous fumes of the chloroform,the Lady Frances seemed to have passed the last point of recall.
And then, at last, with artificial respiration, with injected ether,with every device that science could suggest, some flutter of life,some quiver of the eyelids, some dimming of a mirror, spoke ofthe slowly returning life. A cab had driven up, and Holmes, partingthe blind, looked out at it. “Here is Lestrade with his warrant,”
said he. “He will find that his birds have flown. And here,” headded as a heavy step hurried along the passage, “is someone whohas a better right to nurse this lady than we have. Good morning,Mr. Green; I think that the sooner we can move the Lady Francesthe better. Meanwhile, the funeral may proceed, and the poor oldwoman who still lies in that coffin may go to her last resting-placealone.”
