It wasn’t hot air， either. But I took little notice—you see， I lovedhim myself at that time. Whatever he did went with me， same aswith this poor fool！ There was just one thing that shook me. Yes，by cripes！ if it had not been for his poisonous， lying tongue thatexplains and soothes. I’d have left him that very night. It’s a bookhe has—a brown leather book with a lock， and his arms in gold onthe outside. I think he was a bit drunk that night， or he would nothave shown it to me.”
“What was it， then？”
“I tell you， Mr. Holmes， this man collects women， and takes apride in his collection， as some men collect moths or butterflies.
He had it all in that book. Snapshot photographs， names， details，everything about them. It was a beastly book—a book no man，even if he had come from the gutter， could have put together. Butit was Adelbert Gruner’s book all the same. ‘Souls I have ruined.’
He could have put that on the outside if he had been so minded.
However， that’s neither here nor there， for the book would notserve you， and， if it would， you can’t get it.”
“Where is it？”
“How can I tell you where it is now？ It’s more than a year sinceI left him. I know where he kept it then. He’s a precise， tidy cat ofa man in many of his ways， so maybe it is still in the pigeon-hole ofthe old bureau in the inner study. Do you know his house？”
“I’ve been in the study，” said Holmes.
“Have you， though？ You haven’t been slow on the job if you onlystarted this morning. Maybe dear Adelbert has met his matchthis time. The outer study is the one with the Chinese crockeryin it—big glass cupboard between the windows. Then behind hisdesk is the door that leads to the inner study—a small room wherehe keeps papers and things.”
“Is he not afraid of burglars？”
“Adelbert is no coward. His worst enemy couldn’t say that ofhim. He can look after himself. There’s a burglar alarm at night.
Besides， what is there for a burglar—unless they got away with allthis fancy crockery？”
“No good，” said Shinwell Johnson with the decided voice of theexpert. “No fence wants stuff of that sort that you can neithermelt nor sell.”
“Quite so，” said Holmes. “Well， now， Miss Winter， if youwould call here to-morrow evening at five. I would considerin the meanwhile whether your suggestion of seeing this ladypersonally may not be arranged. I am exceedingly obliged to youfor your cooperation. I need not say that my clients will considerliberally——”
“None of that， Mr. Holmes，” cried the young woman. “I am notout for money. Let me see this man in the mud， and I’ve got all I’veworked for—in the mud with my foot on his cursed face. That’smy price. I’m with you to-morrow or any other day so long as youare on his track. Porky here can tell you always where to find me.”
I did not see Holmes again until the following evening whenwe dined once more at our Strand restaurant. He shrugged hisshoulders when I asked him what luck he had had in his interview.
Then he told the story， which I would repeat in this way. His hard，dry statement needs some little editing to soften it into the termsof real life.
“There was no difficulty at all about the appointment，” saidHolmes， “for the girl glories in showing abject filial obedience inall secondary things in an attempt to atone for her flagrant breachof it in her engagement. The General phoned that all was ready，and the fiery Miss W. turned up according to schedule， so thatat half-past five a cab deposited us outside 104 Berkeley Square，where the old soldier resides—one of those awful gray Londoncastles which would make a church seem frivolous. A footmanshowed us into a great yellow-curtained drawing-room， and therewas the lady awaiting us， demure， pale， self-contained， as inflexibleand remote as a snow image on a mountain.
“I don’t quite know how to make her clear to you， Watson.
Perhaps you may meet her before we are through， and you canuse your own gift of words. She is beautiful， but with the etherealother-world beauty of some fanatic whose thoughts are set onhigh. I have seen such faces in the pictures of the old masters ofthe Middle Ages. How a beastman could have laid his vile pawsupon such a being of the beyond I cannot imagine. You mayhave noticed how extremes call to each other， the spiritual to theanimal， the cave-man to the angel. You never saw a worse casethan this.
“She knew what we had come for， of course—that villain hadlost no time in poisoning her mind against us. Miss Winter’sadvent rather amazed her， I think， but she waved us into ourrespective chairs like a reverend abbess receiving two ratherleprous mendicants. If your head is inclined to swell， my dearWatson， take a course of Miss Violet de Merville.
“ ‘Well， sir，’ said she in a voice like the wind from an iceberg， ‘yourname is familiar to me. You have called， as I understand， to malignmy fiancé， Baron Gruner. It is only by my father’s request that Isee you at all， and I warn you in advance that anything you can saycould not possibly have the slightest effect upon my mind.’
“I was sorry for her， Watson. I thought of her for the momentas I would have thought of a daughter of my own. I am not ofteneloquent. I use my head， not my heart. But I really did plead withher with all the warmth of words that I could find in my nature. Ipictured to her the awful position of the woman who only wakesto a man’s character after she is his wife—a woman who has tosubmit to be caressed by bloody hands and lecherous lips. I sparedher nothing—the shame， the fear， the agony， the hopelessnessof it all. All my hot words could not bring one tinge of colour tothose ivory cheeks or one gleam of emotion to those abstractedeyes. I thought of what the rascal had said about a post-hypnoticinfluence. One could really believe that she was living above theearth in some ecstatic dream. Yet there was nothing indefinite inher replies.
“ ‘I have listened to you with patience， Mr. Holmes，’ said she.
