letter. But that was not good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you gave good advice to poor people, I came to you.”
“And you did very well,” said Holmes. “Your case is remarkable, and I shall be happy to look into it. The affair may be very serious.”
“Of course serious!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “I have lost four pounds a week.”
“As far as you are personally concerned[11],” remarked Holmes, “I do not see that you have anything against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by about 30 pounds, to say nothing of the knowledge which you have got on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing.”
“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and why they played this trick—if it was a trick – on me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them thirty-two pounds.”
“We shall try to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first brought you the advertisement—how long had he been with you?”
“About a month then.”
“How did he come?”
“In answer to an advertisement.”
“Was he the only who answered the advertisement?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you choose him?”
“Because he was cheap.”
“At half wages.”
“Yes.”
“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”
“Small, very quick, no hair on his face, about thirty. He has a white scar on his forehead.”
Holmes sat up in his chair very much excited. “I thought as much[12],” said he. “Are his ears pierced for earrings?”
“Yes, sir. He told me he had done it when he was a boy.”
“He is still with you?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”
“And has he worked well in your absence?”
“Yes, sir. There’s never very much to do in the morning.”
“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion on the matter in a day or two. Today is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us, “what do you make of it all[13]?”
“I make nothing of it,” I answered. “It is a very mysterious business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more unusual a thing is the less mysterious it is in the end. But I must hurry up.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is a three pipe problem[14], and I ask you not to speak to me for fifty minutes.” He sat in his chair, with his eyes closed. I had come to the conclusion that he had fallen asleep, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair like a man who had made up his mind and put his pipe down on the table.
“What do you think, Watson? Could you come with me for a few hours?” he said.
“I have nothing to do today. My practice is never very busy.”
We travelled by the Underground first; and then a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the unusual story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a little, shabby place, where two-storeyed houses looked out into a small garden. A brown board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters on a corner house showed us the place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it and looked it all over. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, struck on the ground with his stick two or three times, went up to the door and knocked. It was opened by a young fellow, who asked him to come in.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how I could go from here to the Strand[15].”
“The first turning to the left,” answered the assistant, closing the door.
“Smart fellow,” remarked Holmes as we walked away. “I think, he is the fourth smartest man in London. I have known something of him before.”
“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant is involved in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you asked your way only to see him.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“The knees of his trousers.”
“And what did you see?”
“What I expected to see.”
“Why did you strike the ground?”
“My dear doctor, this is a time for action, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now see some other places.”
The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from Saxe-Coburg Square was a great contrast to it. It was one of the main arteries with busy traffic. It was difficult to realize as we looked at the line of fine shops and business offices that they were really on the other side of the quiet square which we had just left.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the street, “I should like to remember the order of the houses here. There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank[16], the Vegetarian Restaurant. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work.
“Do you want to go home?”
“Yes.”
“And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious.”
“Why serious?”
“A crime is being prepared. I believe that we shall be in time to stop it. I shall want your help tonight.”
“At what time?”
“At ten. There may be some danger, so put your army revolver in your pocket.” And he disappeared in the crowd.
I must say I always felt stupid when I was with Sherlock Holmes. I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was going to happen, while to me the whole business was still a mystery. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it. Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this pawnbroker’s assistant was a criminal. But I could not think what he was up to and then decided that the night would bring an explanation.
III
It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way to Baker Street. Two cabs were standing at the door, and as I entered the house I heard voices from above. On entering his room I found Holmes speaking to two men, one of whom I recognized as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a hat and very respectable coat.
“Ha! Our party is complete. Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in tonight’s adventure,” said Holmes.
“You may have confidence in Mr. Holmes,