The Sherlock Holmes Christmas Collection. Arthur Conan Doyle

hunting for the treasure. At last, however, came what we had waited for so long. The treasure had been found. It was up at the top of the house, in Mr. Bartholomew Sholto’s chemical laboratory. I came at once and had a look at the place, but I could not see how with my wooden leg I was to make my way up to it. I learned, however, about a trapdoor in the roof, and also about Mr. Sholto’s supper-hour. It seemed to me that I could manage the thing easily through Tonga. I brought him out with me with a long rope wound round his waist. He could climb like a cat, and he soon made his way through the roof, but, as ill luck would have it, Bartholomew Sholto was still in the room, to his cost. Tonga thought he had done something very clever in killing him, for when I came up by the rope I found him strutting about as proud as a peacock. Very much surprised was he when I made at him with the rope’s end and cursed him for a little blood-thirsty imp. I took the treasure- box and let it down, and then slid down myself, having first left the sign of the four upon the table, to show that the jewels had come back at last to those who had most right to them. Tonga then pulled up the rope, closed the window, and made off the way that he had come.

      “I don’t know that I have anything else to tell you. I had heard a waterman speak of the speed of Smith’s launch the Aurora, so I thought she would be a handy craft for our escape. I engaged with old Smith, and was to give him a big sum if he got us safe to our ship. He knew, no doubt, that there was some screw loose, but he was not in our secrets. All this is the truth, and if I tell it to you, gentlemen, it is not to amuse you, — for you have not done me a very good turn,—but it is because I believe the best defence I can make is just to hold back nothing, but let all the world know how badly I have myself been served by Major Sholto, and how innocent I am of the death of his son.”

      “A very remarkable account,” said Sherlock Holmes. “A fitting wind-up to an extremely interesting case. There is nothing at all new to me in the latter part of your narrative, except that you brought your own rope. That I did not know. By the way, I had hoped that Tonga had lost all his darts; yet he managed to shoot one at us in the boat.”

      “He had lost them all, sir, except the one which was in his blowpipe at the time.”

      “Ah, of course,” said Holmes. “I had not thought of that.”

      “Is there any other point which you would like to ask about?” asked the convict, affably.

      “I think not, thank you,” my companion answered.

      “Well, Holmes,” said Athelney Jones, “You are a man to be humoured, and we all know that you are a connoisseur of crime, but duty is duty, and I have gone rather far in doing what you and your friend asked me. I shall feel more at ease when we have our story-teller here safe under lock and key. The cab still waits, and there are two inspectors down-stairs. I am much obliged to you both for your assistance. Of course you will be wanted at the trial. Good-night to you.”

      “Good-night, gentlemen both,” said Jonathan Small.

      “You first, Small,” remarked the wary Jones as they left the room. “I’ll take particular care that you don’t club me with your wooden leg, whatever you may have done to the gentleman at the Andaman Isles.”

      “Well, and there is the end of our little drama,” I remarked, after we had set some time smoking in silence. “I fear that it may be the last investigation in which I shall have the chance of studying your methods. Miss Morstan has done me the honour to accept me as a husband in prospective.”

      He gave a most dismal groan. “I feared as much,” said he. “I really cannot congratulate you.”

      I was a little hurt. “Have you any reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?” I asked.

      “Not at all. I think she is one of the most charming young ladies I ever met, and might have been most useful in such work as we have been doing. She had a decided genius that way: witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father. But love is an emotional thing, and whatever is emotional is opposed to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgement.”

      “I trust,” said I, laughing, “that my judgement may survive the ordeal. But you look weary.”

      “Yes, the reaction is already upon me. I shall be as limp as a rag for a week.”

      “Strange,” said I, “how terms of what in another man I should call laziness alternate with your fits of splendid energy and vigour.”

      “Yes,” he answered, “there are in me the makings of a very fine loafer and also of a pretty spry sort of fellow. I often think of those lines of old Goethe:—

      Schade, dass die Natur nur einen Mensch aus Dir schuf,

       Denn zum würdigen Mann war und zum Schelmen der Stoff.

      By the way, à propos of this Norwood business, you see that they had, as I surmised, a confederate in the house, who could be none other than Lal Rao, the butler: so Jones actually has the undivided honour of having caught one fish in his great haul.”

      “The division seems rather unfair,” I remarked. “You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?”

      “For me,” said Sherlock Holmes, “there still remains the cocaine bottle.” And he stretched his long white hand up for it.

      The Hound of the Baskervilles

       Table of Contents

Table of Contents

       I. Mr. Sherlock Holmes

       II. The Curse of the Baskervilles

       III. The Problem

       IV. Sir Henry Baskerville

       V. Three Broken Threads

       VI. Baskerville Hall

       VII. The Stapletons of Merripit House

       VIII. First Report of Dr. Watson

       IX. The Light Upon the Moor

       X. Extract from the Diary of Dr. Watson

       XI. The Man on the Tor

       XII. Death on the Moor

       XIII. Fixing The Nets

       XIV. The Hound of the Baskervilles

       XV. A Retrospection