“Well, now, Watson, let us judge the situation by this newinformation. We may take it that the letter came out of thisstrange household and was an invitation to Garcia to carry outsome attempt which had already been planned. Who wrote thenote? It was someone within the citadel, and it was a woman. Whothen but Miss Burnet, the governess? All our reasoning seems topoint that way. At any rate, we may take it as a hypothesis and seewhat consequences it would entail. I may add that Miss Burnet’sage and character make it certain that my first idea that theremight be a love interest in our story is out of the question.
“If she wrote the note she was presumably the friend andconfederate of Garcia. What, then, might she be expected todo if she heard of his death? If he met it in some nefariousenterprise her lips might be sealed. Still, in her heart, she mustretain bitterness and hatred against those who had killed him andwould presumably help so far as she could to have revenge uponthem. Could we see her, then and try to use her? That was myfirst thought. But now we come to a sinister fact. Miss Burnet hasnot been seen by any human eye since the night of the murder.
From that evening she has utterly vanished. Is she alive? Has sheperhaps met her end on the same night as the friend whom shehad summoned? Or is she merely a prisoner? There is the pointwhich we still have to decide.
“You will appreciate the difficulty of the situation, Watson.
There is nothing upon which we can apply for a warrant. Ourwhole scheme might seem fantastic if laid before a magistrate.
The woman’s disappearance counts for nothing, since in thatextraordinary household any member of it might be invisible for aweek. And yet she may at the present moment be in danger of herlife. All I can do is to watch the house and leave my agent, Warner,on guard at the gates. We can’t let such a situation continue. If thelaw can do nothing we must take the risk ourselves.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I know which is her room. It is accessible from the top of anThe Adventure of Wisteria Lodge outhouse. My suggestion is that you and I go to-night and see ifwe can strike at the very heart of the mystery.”
It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. The oldhouse with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidableinhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and thefact that we were putting ourselves legally in a false position allcombined to damp my ardour. But there was something in theice-cold reasoning of Holmes which made it impossible to shrinkfrom any adventure which he might recommend. One knew thatthus, and only thus, could a solution be found. I clasped his handin silence, and the die was cast.
But it was not destined that our investigation should have soadventurous an ending. It was about five o’clock, and the shadowsof the March evening were beginning to fall, when an excitedrustic rushed into our room.
“They’ve gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last train. Thelady broke away, and I’ve got her in a cab downstairs.”
“Excellent, Warner!” cried Holmes, springing to his feet.
“Watson, the gaps are closing rapidly.”
In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion.
She bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of somerecent tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, butas she raised it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that herpupils were dark dots in the centre of the broad gray iris. She wasdrugged with opium.
“I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes,” saidour emissary, the discharged gardener. “When the carriage cameout I followed it to the station. She was like one walking in hersleep, but when they tried to get her into the train she came to lifeand struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She fought herway out again. I took her part, got her into a cab, and here we are.
I shan’t forget the face at the carriage window as I led her away.
I’d have a short life if he had his way—the black-eyed, scowling,yellow devil.”
We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple ofcups of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the mistsof the drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and thesituation rapidly explained to him.
“Why, sir, you’ve got me the very evidence I want,” said theinspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. “I was on thesame scent as you from the first.”
“What! You were after Henderson?”
“Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubberyat High Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and sawyou down below. It was just who would get his evidence first.”
The Complete Sherlock Holmes
“Then why did you arrest the mulatto?”
Baynes chuckled.
“I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he wassuspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long ashe thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to makehim believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be likely toclear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss Burnet.”
Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector’s shoulder.
“You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct andintuition,” said he.
Baynes flushed with pleasure.
“I’ve had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the week.
Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in sight. Buthe must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet broke away.
However, your man picked her up, and it all ends well. We can’tarrest without her evidence, that is clear, so the sooner we get astatement the better.”
“Every minute she gets stronger,” said Holmes, glancing at thegoverness. “But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?”
“Henderson,” the inspector answered, “is Don Murillo, once callthe Tiger of San Pedro.”