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In 1902, the writer was knighted by King Edward VII.He was also appointed a Deputy-Lieutenant of Surrey. However, he wasn't knighted for having created Sherlock Holmes. He was made a knight for his work on a non-fiction pamphlet regarding the Boer War.

REVIEW: Sherlock - S3, Ep1 The Empty Hearse

4. Doyle was on the same cricket team as Peter Pan writer JM Barrie

They also worked together on a comic opera, Jane Annie, which Barrie begged his friend to revise and finish for him.

5. He could have discussed Dracula and Treasure Island with their authors

Doyle was also friends with Bram Stoker, and Robert Louis Stevenson was a fellow classmate at the University of Edinburgh.

REVIEW: Sherlock - S3, Ep2 The Sign of Three

6. He helped to popularise skiing

He not only liked cricket and football, but Doyle helped to popularise the winter sport. Following a move to Davros, Switzerland in 1893 (the mountain air was prescribe to aid his wife's health), he mastered the basics with the help of the Brangger brothers, two locals who had taken to practising the sport after dark to avoid being teased by the townsfolk. Together, they were the first people to make the 8,000ft pass through the Maienfelder Furka, which separated Davos from the neighbouring town of Arosa. Doyle was also the first Englishman to document the thrill of skiing: "You let yourself go," he said. "Getting as near to flying as any earthbound man can. In that glorious air it is a delightful experience." Doyle correctly predicted that in the future hundreds of Englishmen would come to Switzerland for the "skiing season".

Conan Doyle was the first to bring skiing from Scandinavia to Switzerland

7. He was a goalie

Under the pseudonym AC Smith, the writer played as a goalkeeper for amateur side Portsmouth Association Football Club, a precursor of the modern Portsmouth FC.

8. Doyle ran for parliament... twice!

Doyle ran for parliament (representing the Unionist Party) once in Edinburgh (in 1900) and once in the Border Burghs (in 1906). Although he received a respectable vote both times he was not elected. In the 1900 general election, Doyle was defeated by CM Brown of the Liberal Party, who received 3,028 votes against 2,459 cast for Doyle.

9. He was too fat to fight

The reason why he couldn't become a soldier in the Boer War was because he was overweight. Instead, he volunteered as a ship's doctor and sailed to Africa.

READ: When Ian Rankin Met Arthur Conan Doyle

10. Ophthalmology's loss was literature's gain

Arthur Conan Doyle set up an ophthalmology practice in London. Doyle wrote in his autobiography that not a single patient ever crossed his door. Although, the silver lining was that he could dedicate his time to writing.

11. He believed in fairies

Sherlock might have been a sceptic but Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies. Well, he was convinced by the Cottingley Fairy photographs, the famous 1917 hoax. He even spent a million dollars promoting them and wrote a book, The Coming of the Fairies (1921), on their authenticity.

One of the Cottingley Fairies photographs, taken by Elsie Wright (15) and her cousin Frances Griffiths, which caused a storm in 1917

12. And also believed in a number of mediums

But this came at the cost of his friendship with Harry Houdini, who at the same time was trying to disprove the claims of the Spiritualist movement.

13. Why he killed off his most famous creation?

Sherlock Holmes was far from being Doyle's own favourite character and was killed off in 1893, only to be resurrected 10 years later after public demand and monetary persuasion. He had earlier told a friend: "I couldn't revive him if I would, at least not for years, for I have had such an overdose of him that I feel towards him as I do towards pâté de foie gras, of which I once ate too much, so that the name of it gives me a sickly feeling to this day." However, there may have been other reasons for the writer killing off his famous creation, as it happened in the same year that Doyle's alcoholic father died in an asylum.

14. He shares his birthday with Wagner

As well as composer Richard Wagner, Doyle also shares his birthday (22 May) with actor Laurence Olivier, singer Morrissey, model Naomi Campbell and tennis player Novak Djokovic.

IN PICTURES: Sherlock: the 10 greatest Dr Watsons

15. Doyle and George Bernard Shaw had a spat about the Titanic

After the Titanic sank in 1912, Doyle and George Bernard Shaw had a very public disagreement about the disaster. Doyle was outraged by the dismissive and bitter comments made by the playwright regarding the many acts of heroics that took place aboard the ship as it went down.

16. There's a square in Switzerland named after him

The town of Meiringen in Switzerland was the location of The Adventure of the Final Problem, the novel in which the author killed the detective off. In 1988, a statue of Sherlock Holmes was placed in the village square, now named Conan Doyle Place.

A sign marking the Conan Doyle Square in the town of Meiringen

17. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle didn't just write mysteries, he actually solved a few

One of particular interest to him was The Curious Case of Oscar Slater - for the murder of Marion Gilchrist, a wealthy 82-year-old woman from Glasgow. Doyle applied the "Holmes method", in which he uncovered new evidence, recalled witnesses and questioned the prosecution's evidence. His findings were published as a plea for Slater's pardon. It caused a sensation and there were calls for a retrial, but all this was promptly ignored by the Scottish authorities. The desperate and incarcerated Slater later smuggled messages out of prison and Doyle's interest in the case was reignited. He wrote to politicians and used his own money to fund Slater's legal fees. One politician, Ramsay McDonald - Britain's first Labour prime minister - informed the Scottish Secretary that the police and the legal authorities had colluded to withhold evidence and influence witnesses. Slater was subsequently released from prison with £6,000 compensation but never shared it with Doyle.

18. Doyle died holding a flower

Doyle died on July 7, 1930. He collapsed in his garden, clutching his heart with one hand and holding a flower in the other. His last words were to his wife. He whispered to her: "You are wonderful."

19. A séance was organised for him to make an appearance from beyond the grave

Following his death, a séance was conducted at the Royal Albert Hall. Thousands attended, including his wife and children. A row of chairs were arranged on the stage for the family, with one left empty for Sir Arthur. Even though he did not appear, there were many people in the audience who claimed they had felt his presence among them.

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IN PICTURES: THE 20 GREATEST SHERLOCK HOLMES

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Arthur Conan Doyle: 19 things you didn't know

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In 1902, the writer was knighted by King Edward VII.He was also appointed a Deputy-Lieutenant of Surrey. However, he wasn't knighted for having created Sherlock Holmes. He was made a knight for his work on a non-fiction pamphlet regarding the Boer War. REVIEW: Sherlock - S3, Ep1 The Empty Hearse 4.

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Why has Sherlock Holmes continued to captivate readers generation after generation, while other fictional detectives of the Victorian period have been forgotten? To investigate, Professor John Sutherland explores shilling shockers, arch criminals, and forensic science.

'Holmes takes my mind from better things', Arthur Conan Doyle once complained. His mother sternly objected. He did nothing better, she told him. Posterity has agreed with Mrs Doyle. Sherlock Holmes is not merely the best thing the author did, but one of the best things any author has done. The 'unofficial consulting detective', operating from his modest 'digs' at 221B Baker Street (the 'B' is a nice touch), where the detective resides, Mrs Hudson, his dragonish landlady, keeps house, and Dr Watson, premaritally, lodges, has joined that select of literary characters whose fame has soared beyond literature - along with Hamlet, Don Quixote, Samuel Pickwick, Svengali, and Harry Potter.

The Holmes enterprise began modestly with A Study in Scarlet, for which its impoverished author, then a struggling physician, received the measly sum of £25. Now 'Sherlock' is a television and film franchise, generating millions world-wide.

How did it happen? Why has Holmes continued to captivate generation after generation when other fictional detectives of the Victorian period are forgotten? One can break the answers down into a mix of elements. But first it will be useful to summarize the life of Holmes's creator:

Doyle was born in Edinburgh in 1859, one of nine children of an alcoholic Irish artist who was consigned, in later life, to a lunatic asylum. Young Arthur Doyle was educated at the fee-paying Jesuit college, Stonyhurst. At 16 he spent a year in Austria before enrolling at Edinburgh University's medical school. In 1880 he spent seven months in the Arctic as ship's doctor on a whaler. The following year he graduated with a respectable degree, and made another trip to Africa before setting up, less adventurously, in medical practice near Portsmouth, in July 1882. His income had reached £300 a year by 1885, enabling him to marry the sister of one of his patients. Doyle had long written on the side and in 1886 he played around with stories centred on an 'amateur private detec-tive', called 'J. Sherrinford Holmes'. The outcome was the Sherlock Holmes novella, A Study in Scarlet (1887). No top-drawer publisher would take it and it was eventually serialized as a Christmas giveaway in a magazine and then as what was called a 'shilling shocker' - pulp fiction for the masses:

This mystery of double murder in Utah and London caught the public taste, and Doyle followed it up with another Holmes adventure, The Sign of Four (1890). It too was well received, but the Holmes mania took off early in 1891 when Doyle submitted six short stories to the Strand Magazine. The editor realised 'that here was the greatest short story writer since Edgar Allan Poe' . These Sherlock Holmes stories were devised to correct 'the great defect' in current detective fiction - lack of logic. The Strand Stories were illustrated by the equally brilliant Sidney Paget, who supplied the detective with his trademark deerstalker and aquiline profile.

Doyle's heart was never really in detective fiction. Nevertheless the stories were phenomenally popular in Britain and America and overshadowed everything else Doyle would ever write. In 1893, he killed the detective at the Reichenbach Falls. The Strand Magazine lost 20,000 subscribers overnight. There were protests from high places.

Much as he came to hate him, Holmes made Doyle rich, and by the end of the century he was one of the wealthiest of British men of letters.

The growth of detective fiction

Detective Fiction evolved into a bestselling 'genre' in the 19th century. The establishment of criminal investigation departments - such as the London CID (1878) - were historical preconditions. So too were the pioneer short stories of Edgar Allan Poe, most famously the 'locked room' classic, 'The Murders in the Rue Morgue' (1841), centred on the detective Auguste Dupin who, like Holmes, cracks cases entirely by 'ratiocination'. It is immortalized as Holmes's iron rule, enunciated (twice) in The Sign of Four. 'How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?' Another pioneer, influential on Doyle, was the French author, Emile Gaboriau (1832-1873), and his series hero, M. Lecoq.

The market for cheap fiction

As important was the growth of a mass market, ravenous for cheap fiction, stimulated in Britain by the 1870 'Universal Education' act. This created, by the time Holmes came on the scene, a young, educated readership with little cash. It is significant that Doyle's first Holmes story was a 'shilling shocker' (5 modern pence) and the Strand Magazine, where Holmes was sensationally popularized, sold for sixpence (2.5 modern pence). Holmes was an affordable luxury - even for the impecunious teen-ager.

Doyle introduced a number of brilliant innovations into the genre. Taken as a whole, the novels celebrate (like the cricket Doyle loved) the British cult of 'amateurism'. Holmes is brilliant, but he has no profession and - although cleverer, we are informed, than his professors - never troubled to finish his medical degree.

He is, as is proclaimed in A Study in Scarlet (Ch. 1), an 'unofficial private detective'. This places him in a different category from the Scotland Yard detective, first introduced by Dickens's Inspector Bucket, in Bleak House (1852). Private detectives were enlarged massively, as a profession, by the 1857 divorce ('Matrimonial Causes') Act. But Holmes is a 'gentlemanly' sleuth. Not for him any key-hole peeping on adulterous delinquency (then, as now, key evidence in divorce cases). 'Not cricket'. His upper class chivalry and 'English' decency are hallmarks. In the one love affair we know Holmes to have had, that with (criminal) Irene Adler, in 'A Scandal in Bohemia' (1891), he behaves with impeccable, truly English, gallantry.

Idiot friends, arch criminals and forensic science

Doyle introduced three devices into detective fiction narrative which have become major conventions in the genre. One is the so-called 'idiot friend', who must have everything explained to him (thus informing, as well, the idiot reader). Dr Watson, of course, is such a companion in the Holmes stories. And the good doctor is close kin to such figures as Major Hastings, Poirot's 'idiot friend', in Agatha Christie's detective stories, and many others.

Another of Doyle's innovations was the arch criminal, or 'Napoleon of Crime', who is far too clever for the clod-hopping, uniformed, agents of law and order ('flatfoots'), such as Inspector Lestrade. In the Holmes stories the arch-criminal is 'Professor' Moriarty.

He is a man of good birth and excellent education, endowed by nature with a phenomenal mathematical faculty. At the age of twenty-one he wrote a treatise upon the binomial theorem which has had a European vogue. On the strength of it, he won the mathematical chair at one of our smaller universities, and had, to all appearances, a most brilliant career before him. But the man had hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind. A criminal strain ran in his blood.... He is the Napoleon of crime, Watson. He is the organiser of half that is evil and of nearly all that is undetected in this great city... ('The Final Problem' (1893)).

The third innovation is 'forensic science' as a means of cracking cases. We first encounter Holmes, in A Study in Scarlet (Ch.1) investigating the properties of haemoglobin in his Baker Street laboratory. He exclaims it to be (to a sceptical Watson):

'It is the most practical medico-legal discovery for years. Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains?'

In his second Holmes work, The Sign of Four, finger-prints are similarly introduced, as essentials in the detective's tool-kit.

Improbabilities and illogicalities

As has been said, Doyle did not rate detective fiction highly as a literary category. He felt his densely researched historical fiction was what posterity would most value. He was mistaken. But following his sense of what mattered most and least, he took a little care in writing his Holmes stories. Thoughtful readers will detect any number of improbabilities, illogicalities and at times sheer absurdities.

In one of the most loved, and filmed, of the adventures, The Hound of the Baskervilles (1902), for example, an aristocrat is frightened to death by a 'demon dog' which turns out to be a mongrel bought from a dealer in the Fulham Road. The luckless beast's eyes are daubed, to create the necessary blood-chilling luminosity, with phosphorescent paint (not, any dog lover will testify, an easy operation). And what criminal, with the quicksands of Grimpen Mire handy, would bother with such an unnecessarily elaborate modus operandi?

Doyle's personal favourite among his Holmes stories was 'The Speckled Band'. A locked room mystery, its plot revolves around a trained snake (an Indian swamp adder - no such species exists) which can, on order by a whistle, descend and ascend a servant bell rope in the room (a physiological impossibility for snakes who rarely take orders). Error hunters have an easy time with the Holmes stories.

They do not, time and popularity have proved, matter. Most readers, still millions strong, have no difficulty at all in swallowing the flaws in probability, chronology, and detail in the 56 Holmes stories. They are so much fun.

The medical connection

Literary historians have observed that the 'science of detection', in fact and fiction, has a close connection with medical advances in the 19th century. The observation of criminal 'clues' and the interpretation of disease 'symptoms' are much the same. 'You see, but you do not observe' ('A Scandal in Bohemia'), Holmes chides Watson. The same rule applies to physicians. John Snow, for example, who worked out in 1854 what it was that was spreading cholera in London - not poisoned air, but infected water. Like Holmes, Snow 'read the clues'.

It is significant that Holmes was a medical student and Doyle, himself, a trained, and practicing, physician from the leading medical school in Europe. At Edinburgh Doyle was deeply impressed by the 'deductive' method of his tutor, Professor Joseph Bell. He gave a vivid example of it, in later life.

In one of his best cases [Joseph Bell] said to a civilian patient: 'Well, my man, you've served in the army.'
'Aye, Sir.'
'Not long discharged?'
'Aye, Sir.'
'A Highland regiment?'
'Aye, Sir.'
'A non-com officer?'
'Aye, Sir.'
'Stationed at Barbados?'
'Aye, Sir.'
'You see, gentlemen,' [Bell] would explain, 'the man was a respectful man but did not remove his hat. They do not in the army, but he would have learned civilian ways had he been long discharged. He has an air of authority and he is obviously Scottish. As to Barbados, his complaint is Elephantiasis, which is West Indian, and not British.'

Compare the first encounter of Holmes and Watson, in A Study in Scarlet (Ch.1).:

'How are you?' he said cordially, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. 'You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive'
'How on earth did you know that?' I asked in astonishment.

Decadence

Holmes, like Oscar Wilde, flowered in the 1890s - a period in which the dominant literary milieu was 'decadent'. Consider, for example, the opening of the Sign of Four (Watson, as usual, is writing):

'Which is it to-day,' I asked, 'morphine or cocaine? He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened.' It is cocaine,' he said, 'a seven-per-cent solution. Would you care to try it?'

Dr Watson - the most undecadent of idiot friends - declines. And, for those readers and critics who have dared to see anything sexual in the relationship of the two men, in their digs, only one response is possible: 'when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth'. Or, perhaps, not.

Footnotes

[1] Sherlock Holmes: The Major Stories with Contemporary Critical Essays, ed. John A.Hodgson (London: Macmillan, 1994), p. 10.

[2] The term 'Napoleon of Crime' was first applied to Count Fosco(a brilliant scientist), by Wilkie Collins, in The Woman in White (1860). It is a rich line of characterization culminating in Hannibal Lector.

[3] Hodgson, op cit, 4-5.

John Sutherland is Lord Northcliffe Professor Emeritus at UCL. He has taught principally in the UK, at the University of Edinburgh and UCL, and in the US at the California Institute of Technology. He has written over thirty books. Among his fields of special interest are Victorian Literature and Publishing History. He is a well known writer and reviewer in the British and American press.

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Sherlock Holmes, the world's most famous literary detective

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Why has Sherlock Holmes continued to captivate readers generation after generation, while other fictional detectives of the Victorian period have been forgotten? To investigate, Professor John Sutherland explores shilling shockers, arch criminals, and forensic science. 'Holmes takes my mind from better things', Arthur Conan Doyle once complained. His mother sternly objected.

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Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De Quincey's description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

One night-it was in June, '89-there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help."

"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in."

"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a light-house.

"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!"

It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?

It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?

There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be.

But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.

Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.

As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.

"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock is it?"

"Nearly eleven."

"Of what day?"

"Of Friday, June 19th."

"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a high treble key.

"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes-I forget how many. But I'll go home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate-poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?"

"Yes, I have one waiting."

"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."

I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.

"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"

"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you."

"I have a cab outside."

"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes."

It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views."

"I was certainly surprised to find you there."

"But not more so than I to find you."

"I came to find a friend."

"And I to find an enemy."

"An enemy?"

"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my life would not have been worth an hour's purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights."

"What! You do not mean bodies?"

"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had 1000 pounds for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here." He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly-a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.

"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?"

"If I can be of use."

"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."

"The Cedars?"

"Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry."

"Where is it, then?"

"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."

"But I am all in the dark."

"Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!"

He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.

"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the door."

"You forget that I know nothing about it."

"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me."

"Proceed, then."

"Some years ago-to be definite, in May, 1884-there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to 88 pounds 10s., while he has 220 pounds standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me so far?"

"It is very clear."

"If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

"Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the steps-for the house was none other than the opium den in which you found me to-night-and running through the front room she attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring home.

"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch-all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy.

"And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defense was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes.

"So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest."

"But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-handed against a man in the prime of life?"

"He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others."

"Pray continue your narrative."

"Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and searched, without anything being found which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.

"And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think they found in the pockets?"

"I cannot imagine."

"No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half-pennies-421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river."
watson finding Holmes in the opium den

"But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"

"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of the telltale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the window when the police appeared."

"It certainly sounds feasible."

"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and the questions which have to be solved-what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance-are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties."

While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.

"We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We have touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet."

"But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?" I asked.

"Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!"

We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head, and springing down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question.

"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

"No good news?"

"None."

"No bad?"

"No."

"Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had a long day."

"This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation."

"I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly. "You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon us."

"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy."

"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out, "I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain answer."

"Certainly, madam."

"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."

"Upon what point?"

"In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"

Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. "Frankly, now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

"Frankly, then, madam, I do not."

"You think that he is dead?"

"I do."

"Murdered?"

"I don't say that. Perhaps."

"And on what day did he meet his death?"

"On Monday."

"Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have received a letter from him to-day."

Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.

"What!" he roared.

"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air.

"May I see it?"

"Certainly."

He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight.

"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not your husband's writing, madam."

"No, but the enclosure is."

"I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the address."

"How can you tell that?"

"The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an enclosure here!"

"Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."

"And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"

"One of his hands."

"One?"

"His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it well."

"'Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience.-NEVILLE.' Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam?"

"None. Neville wrote those words."

"And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is over."

"But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."

"Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him."

"No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"

"Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted to-day."

"That is possible."

"If so, much may have happened between."

"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?"

"I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away from you?"

"I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."

"And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"

"No."

"And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"

"Very much so."

"Was the window open?"

"Yes."

"Then he might have called to you?"

"He might."

"He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"

"Yes."

"A call for help, you thought?"

"Yes. He waved his hands."

"But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"

"It is possible."

"And you thought he was pulled back?"

"He disappeared so suddenly."

"He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?"

"No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the Lascar was at the foot of the stairs."

"Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on?"

"But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat."

"Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

"Never."

"Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"

"Never."

"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow."

A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.

"Awake, Watson?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Game for a morning drive?"

"Certainly."

"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.

As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse.

"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now."

"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.

"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock."

We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.

"It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all."

In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse's head while the other led us in.

"Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.

"Inspector Bradstreet, sir."

"Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. "I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet." "Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here." It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

"I called about that beggarman, Boone-the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee."

"Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."

"So I heard. You have him here?"

"In the cells."

"Is he quiet?"

"Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel."

"Dirty?"

"Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it."

"I should like to see him very much."

"Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your bag."

"No, I think that I'll take it."

"Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down a passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

"The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here it is!" He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through.

"He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."

We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

"He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.

"He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an idea that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me." He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.

"He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.

"Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure."

"Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He doesn't look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He slipped his key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down the prisoner's face.

"Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the county of Kent."

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

"Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missing man. I know him from the photograph."

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray what am I charged with?"

"With making away with Mr. Neville St.-Oh, come, you can't be charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it," said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake."

"If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained."

"No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said Holmes. "You would have done better to have trusted you wife."

"It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the prisoner. "God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an exposure! What can I do?"

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder.

"If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," said he, "of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all."

"God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would have endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children.

"You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26s. 4d.

"I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for 25 pounds. I was at my wit's end where to get the money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.

"Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at 2 pounds a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his possession.

"Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn 700 pounds a year-which is less than my average takings-but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take 2 pounds.

"As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She little knew what.

"Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.

"I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear."

"That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.

"Good God! What a week she must have spent!"

"The police have watched this Lascar," said Inspector Bradstreet, "and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days."

"That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?"

"Many times; but what was a fine to me?"

"It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. "If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone."

"I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take."

"In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results."

"I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."

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The embedded audio player requires a modern internet browser. You should visit Browse Happy and update your internet browser today! Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium.

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* 1st task: n°12 + write a short report about the video (on Google doc -- collaborative note-taking (don't copy what has already been added, please?)

and don't forget to answer the questions and to add a post on the discussion thread...

* 2nd task: n 10 -- quizzes

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12. Top 10 notes -- ted ed lessons worth sharing

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12. Top 10 notes -- ted ed lessons worth sharing

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Top 10 Notes: The Hound of the Baskervilles

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Lessons Discover video-based lessons organized by subject

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Free Study Questions/Quiz for The Hound of the Baskervilles

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VOCABULARY

Asperity
Severity of surroundings or personality; though it is used in Chapter One to describe Holmess response at hearing he is the second best detective, it could also apply to the landscape around the Hall or Stapletons temper, as seen in his outburst when Sir Henry tried to kiss his sister (actually his wife).

Tor
A steep, rocky overlook; Watson spots a man (whom he later finds out was Watson) standing on this the night he and Sir Henry chase the convict.

STUDY QUESTIONS - MULTIPLE CHOICE QUIZ

1. Holmes and Watson are incorrect in this deduction from their visitors cane:

a. his occupation
b. the reason he was given it
c. where he works now
d. where he used to work

10. Watson believes Laura Lyons has information on the case because:

a. she told him she did
b. Barrymore said she had come around a few times in the days before Sir Charless death
c. he sees a womans footprint near the spot where Sir Charles died
d. her initials were at the bottom of a partially-burned letter

16. Sir Henrys fate was:

a. he is recovering by traveling
b. the hound caused permanent injury to his throat and he died three days later
c. in his fright at seeing the hound, he ran into Grimpen Mire and is presumed dead
d. he decided to leave most of his fortune to the Barrymores and return to Canada

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The Hound of the Baskervilles - Questions/Vocabulary

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Study Questions/Quiz for The Hound of the Baskervilles - Vocabulary/Book Notes/Chapter Summary/Free Notes/Analysis/Online/Download-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

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Free Study Questions/Quiz for The Hound of the Baskervilles Previous Page | Table of Contents | Next Page Downloadable / Printable Version Asperity Severity of surroundings or personality; though it is used in Chapter One to describe Holmess response at hearing he is the second best detective, it could also apply to the landscape around the Hall or Stapletons temper, as seen in his outburst when Sir Henry tried to kiss his sister (actually his wife).

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What's on and things to do in London | Museum of London

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Find out what's on at the Museum of London, including current exhibitions, free displays, events, and activities for families and children.

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THE SHERLOCK HOLMES MUSEUM - THE OFFICIAL HOME OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

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THE SHERLOCK HOLMES MUSEUM IS LOCATED AT 221B BAKER STREET LONDON ENGLAND - THE WORLD'S MOST FAMOUS ADDRESS AND THE OFFICIAL HOME OF SHERLOCK HOLMES!

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Warner Brothers Pictures

Overview | How do literary characters evolve in various portrayals? How do these variations affect our understanding of the characters? In this lesson, students consider numerous portrayals of the same character to examine what gives characters lasting power and why and how they evolve over time.

Materials | Videos or DVDs, projection equipment, copies of the current class text

Warm-up | Read aloud the entire beginning of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes adventure "The Hound of the Baskervilles."

Immediately afterward, have students freewrite about the Sherlock Holmes character - his age, mannerisms, personality, attitude, thought process and anything else they gather from this reading. Invite students to share their ideas.

Next, play a trailer for the 2009 Guy Ritchie film "Sherlock Holmes," and then ask: What did you notice about how Robert Downey Jr. portrays Sherlock Holmes? In what ways does Downey's portrayal seem true to the novel excerpt and how you imagined him? In what way does it seem different? If you like, you might also read additional excerpts from Doyle's other books to help them flesh out their ideas of Holmes, such as this section of "A Scandal in Bohemia" (note: this excerpt contains a reference to Holmes' drug use).

Share this reader comment on the Times article that they are about to read: "Thank you Conan Doyle for creating a character who lends himself to various interpretations, thus enabling him to remain alive for us to enjoy for decades! Each of the most enjoyable interpretations, including Rathbone, Brett and now, Downey Jr., have put a unique stamp on Holmes that contributes to his longevity. I say bravo!" Along with this comment, show students these images of different actors portraying Holmes. Ask: Based on the images you have just seen of different Holmes portrayals, what strikes you about the character of Sherlock Holmes? How can portrayals of one character differ so widely? How do different portrayals add to our understanding of a character?

Finally, lead a brainstorm about other literary characters who, like Holmes, have "lived" in many different ways (film, visual art, plays, literary adaptations, fan fiction, etc.). What gives some characters lasting power? Why and how have these characters been portrayed many times, and many different ways? How do these portrayals contribute to our interpretation of the literary characters? What might the original authors think?

Related | In "Sherlock Holmes, Amorphous Sleuth for Any Era," Charles McGrath examines the "afterlife" of Conan Doyle's character Sherlock Holmes and wonders what Conan Doyle might think of the 2009 film "Sherlock Holmes":

Arthur Conan Doyle grew so to hate his greatest creation, Sherlock Holmes, that in 1893 he tried to kill him off, plunging him over the Reichenbach Falls. He called it "justifiable homicide," saying, "If I had not killed him, he would certainly have killed me."

Had Conan Doyle been able to consult with the writers of "Sherlock Holmes," the new movie directed by Guy Ritchie, he might have devised, as they did, more vengeful and imaginative perils, like having Holmes almost bisected by a buzz saw in an abattoir, or crushed by a runaway hull in a shipyard. As it was, Conan Doyle bowed to popular demand and the emptiness of his bank account, and in 1903, after the success of "The Hound of the Baskervilles," reluctantly resurrected Holmes for 24 more years.

Holmes is now unkillable - though purists will doubtless argue that Robert Downey Jr.'s rendition of him in the Ritchie film, which at times resembles a Victorian version of "Fight Club," is a fate worse than death. Even Conan Doyle's own demise in 1930 failed to finish off the great detective. Instead it propelled Holmes into probably the most successful and elaborate afterlife that any fictional character has ever enjoyed. He has appeared in countless movies, stage plays and television series, and has inspired a shelf full of literary sequels and knockoffs, as well as some cartoon versions. He has even been played by Daffy Duck.

Read the article with your class, using the questions below.

Questions | For discussion and reading comprehension:

1. How does the author imagine Conan Doyle would feel about the current film "Sherlock Holmes"?

2. Why did Conan Doyle grow to hate his most famous character?

3. Ironically, the author suggests that Sherlock Holmes would be a less memorable character if Doyle had been a better writer? Why? What is it that gives him continued life?

4. How does the author account for the evolution of images of Sherlock Holmes over time?

5. How does the current film version dialogue with other recent hit movies?

Activity | Gather two or three film, television or other interpretations of the literary work currently being studied in class, with a focus on an important character.

For example, American literature teachers might pair "The Great Gatsby" with the 1949, 1974 and 2000 (TV) movies and look at portrayals of Gatsby or Daisy; in British literature, you might pair the BBC's 1995 television series and the 2003 and 2005 film versions of "Pride and Prejudice" to examine Elizabeth Bennet or Darcy.

Use the structure below (which uses "Romeo and Juliet" as an example) to lead students in comparing portrayals of the character you have chosen to focus on.
Sample Character Study: Juliet

1. Begin the activity by reading aloud, or asking students to read, a key chapter or scene from the text, such as the balcony scene ( Act II, scene 2) or the ball scene ( Act 1, scene 5).

2. Students freewrite about what they perceive about Juliet, considering age, mannerisms, personality, attitude, etc.

3. Students to work in small groups to consider how they would portray Romeo and Juliet, if cast in their roles. Ask them to think about how they might move, speak certain lines to bring out subtext, and generally bring the characters to life.

4. Call for volunteers to play the class's Romeo and Juliet; you might repeat this a couple of times to elicit different interpretations. Students freewrite again after the performances.

5. Show three different interpretations of the same scene, asking students to freewrite after each. For "Romeo and Juliet," three suggestions are Franco Zefferelli's "Romeo and Juliet" (1968), the Royal Ballet production with Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev in the title roles (1966) and Baz Luhrman's "R+J" (1996).

6. Give students a few minutes to review their writing, then prompt discussion by asking students which portrayal they found most compelling and why.

7. Ask: What "unique stamp" does each actress bring to the role of Juliet? Which one do you think Shakespeare would prefer? Why? How does each portrayal resonate throughout the rest of the adaptation, affecting how we see Juliet's relationships, her situation and actions?

Going further | Independently, students find two or three additional interpretations of this character, or another character of their choice from the same text. Encourage them to search for portrayals in film, television, art, comic books, written adaptations or satires, fan fiction or contemporary literature, etc. from around the world and across time periods.

Students examine the portrayals studied in class alongside the ones they found, considering how the character has evolved over time. They then write letters from the point of view of the author about which one he or she prefers and why.

Students might also contribute to a classroom timeline with visuals, film and television stills and literary passages which reflect the character across time and space.

Standards | From McREL, for grades 6-12:

Language Arts
1 - Uses the general skills and strategies of the writing process
5- Uses the general skills and strategies of the reading process
6- Demonstrates competence in the general skills and strategies for reading a variety of literary texts
7- Uses the general skills and strategies to understand a variety of informational texts
8- Uses listening and speaking strategies for different purposes

Life Skills: Working With Others
1- Contributes to the overall effort of a group
4 - Displays effective interpersonal communication skills

Theatre
5- Understands how informal and formal theatre, film, television, and electronic media productions create and communicate meaning.
6- Understands the context in which theatre, film, television, and electronic media are performed today as well as in the past

Art Connections
1- Understands connections among the various art forms and other disciplines

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Amanda Christy Brown and Holly Epstein Ojalvo

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What a Character! Comparing Literary Adaptations

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Warner Brothers Pictures Overview | How do literary characters evolve in various portrayals? How do these variations affect our understanding of the characters? In this lesson, students consider numerous portrayals of the same character to examine what gives characters lasting power and why and how they evolve over time.

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Homework and Class Assignment

In this lesson, the students will read The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and then they will have questions to answer on the worksheet that I have included in the lesson.

Learn how to locate specific examples in text

Remembering events that happened in the text

The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Worksheet I have included in this lesson

First, you will need to copy the worksheet that I have included in this lesson so that each student can have a copy. After that, you can assign them the book, The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to read at home. As they read, they need to take notes. When they have completed their reading assignment, you can pass out their worksheet to do in class. Then, they can submit their papers to you for grading. Worksheet on The Hound of the Baskervilles

Directions: Look at each statement and then write True or False in each blank.

1. _____

Only Sherlock Holmes met with Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry Baskerville.

2. _____

Sir Henry Baskerville found his brown boot.

3. _____

Someone followed Holmes and Watson.

4. _____

Dr. Mortimer was sent a legend, and he read it to Holmes and Watson.

5. _____

Sir Henry Baskerville inherited a lot of money.

6. _____

Dr. Watson talked to the cab driver.

7. _____

Dr. Mortimer was friends with Sir Henry Baskerville.

8. _____

Sherlock Holmes met with Dr. Mortimer in Holmes' office before he met Sir Henry Baskerville.

9. _____

Someone followed Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry when they left Holmes' office.

10. _____

Sherlock Holmes went with Sir Henry to Dartmoor.

11. _____

The Hound of the Baskervilles is a mystery.

12. _____

The author used similes and personification in this book.

13. _____

Dr. Watson wrote two reports to Sherlock Holmes.

14. ______

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote The Hound of the Baskervilles.

15. _____

Sir Henry lost his black boot.

16. _____

This book was a fantasy.

17. _____

The author said, "the house glimmered like a ghost..."

18. _____

The quote in question 17 is a simile.

19. _____

Later on, Sherlock Holmes joined Dr. Watson and Sir Henry at Baskerville Hall.

20. _____

Dr. Mortimer stayed for dinner after Dr. Watson and Sir Henry Baskerville arrived at Baskerville Hall.

You can grade them on the correct answers.

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true or false - the hound of the baskervilles

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True or False - The Hound of the Baskervilles

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Homework and Class Assignment In this lesson, the students will read The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and then they will have questions to answer on the worksheet that I have included in the lesson.

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The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle

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Free kindle book and epub digitized and proofread by Project Gutenberg.

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The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle

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Free kindle book and epub digitized and proofread by Project Gutenberg.