It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to knowthe depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. Theclear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips wereshaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a greatheart as well as of a great brain. All my years of humble but singlemindedservice culminated in that moment of revelation.
“It’s nothing, Holmes. It’s a mere scratch.”
He had ripped up my trousers with his pocket-knife.
“You are right,” he cried with an immense sigh of relief. “It isquite superficial.” His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner,who was sitting up with a dazed face. “By the Lord, it is as well foryou. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of thisroom alive. Now, sir, what have you to say for yourself?”
He had nothing to say for himself. He only sat and scowled. Ileaned on Holmes’s arm, and together we looked down into thesmall cellar which had been disclosed by the secret flap. It wasstill illuminated by the candle which Evans had taken down withhim. Our eyes fell upon a mass of rusted machinery, great rolls ofpaper, a litter of bottles, and, neatly arranged upon a small table, anumber of neat little bundles.
“A printing press—a counterfeiter’s outfit,” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir,” said our prisoner, staggering slowly to his feet andthen sinking into the chair. “The greatest counterfeiter Londonever saw. That’s Prescott’s machine, and those bundles on the tableare two thousand of Prescott’s notes worth a hundred each and fitto pass anywhere. Help yourselves, gentlemen. Call it a deal andlet me beat it.”
Holmes laughed.
“We don’t do things like that, Mr. Evans. There is no boltholefor you in this country. You shot this man Prescott, did you not?”
“Yes, sir, and got five years for it, though it was he who pulled onme. Five years—when I should have had a medal the size of a soupplate. No living man could tell a Prescott from a Bank of England,and if I hadn’t put him out he would have flooded London withthem. I was the only one in the world who knew where he madethem. Can you wonder that I wanted to get to the place? And canyou wonder that when I found this crazy boob of a bug-hunterwith the queer name squatting right on the top of it, and neverquitting his room, I had to do the best I could to shift him? MaybeI would have been wiser if I had put him away. It would have beeneasy enough, but I’m a soft-hearted guy that can’t begin shootingunless the other man has a gun also. But say, Mr. Holmes, whathave I done wrong, anyhow? I’ve not used this plant. I’ve not hurtthis old stiff. Where do you get me?”
“Only attempted murder, so far as I can see,” said Holmes.
“But that’s not our job. They take that at the next stage. What wewanted at present was just your sweet self. Please give the Yard acall, Watson. It won’t be entirely unexpected.”
So those were the facts about Killer Evans and his remarkableinvention of the three Garridebs. We heard later that our poorold friend never got over the shock of his dissipated dreams.
When his castle in the air fell down, it buried him beneath theruins. He was last heard of at a nursing-home in Brixton. It wasa glad day at the Yard when the Prescott outfit was discovered,for, though they knew that it existed, they had never been able,after the death of the man, to find out where it was. Evans hadindeed done great service and caused several worthy C. I. D. mento sleep the sounder, for the counterfeiter stands in a class byhimself as a public danger. They would willingly have subscribedto that soup-plate medal of which the criminal had spoken, but anunappreciative bench took a less favourable view, and the Killerreturned to those shades from which he had just emerged.
The Problem of Thor Bridge
Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at CharingCross, there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch-box withmy name, John H. Watson, M. D., Late Indian Army, painted uponthe lid. It is crammed with papers, nearly all of which are recordsof cases to illustrate the curious problems which Mr. SherlockHolmes had at various times to examine. Some, and not the leastinteresting, were complete failures, and as such will hardly bearnarrating, since no final explanation is forthcoming. A problemwithout a solution may interest the student, but can hardly failto annoy the casual reader. Among these unfinished tales is thatof Mr. James Phillimore, who, stepping back into his own houseto get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world. No lessremarkable is that of the cutter Alicia, which sailed one springmorning into a small patch of mist from where she never againemerged, nor was anything further ever heard of herself andher crew. A third case worthy of note is that of Isadora Persano,the well-known journalist and duellist, who was found starkstaring mad with a match box in front of him which contained aremarkable worm said to be unknown to science. Apart from theseunfathomed cases, there are some which involve the secrets ofprivate families to an extent which would mean consternation inmany exalted quarters if it were thought possible that they mightfind their way into print. I need not say that such a breach ofconfidence is unthinkable, and that these records will be separatedand destroyed now that my friend has time to turn his energies tothe matter. There remain a considerable residue of cases of greateror less interest which I might have edited before had I not fearedto give the public a surfeit which might react upon the reputationof the man whom above all others I revere. In some I was myselfconcerned and can speak as an eye-witness, while in others I waseither not present or played so small a part that they could onlybe told as by a third person. The following narrative is drawn frommy own experience.
It was a wild morning in October, and I observed as I wasdressing how the last remaining leaves were being whirled fromthe solitary plane tree which graces the yard behind our house.
