“I did not take long to think about it, Watson. Again I saw thatgrim face look over the cliff, and I knew that it was the precursorof another stone. I scrambled down on to the path. I don’t thinkcould have done it in cold blood. It was a hundred times moredifficult than getting up. But I had no time to think of the danger,for another stone sang past me as I hung by my hands from theedge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but, by the blessingof God, I landed, torn and bleeding, upon the path. I took to myheels, did ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and aweek later I found myself in Florence, with the certainty that noone in the world knew what had become of me.
“I had only one confidant—my brother Mycroft. I owe youmany apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important thatshould be thought I was dead, and it is quite certain that youwould not have written so convincing an account of my unhappyend had you not yourself thought that it was true. Several timesduring the last three years I have taken up my pen to write to you,but always I feared lest your affectionate regard for me shouldtempt you to some indiscretion which would betray my secret. ForThe Return of Sherlock Holmes 857
that reason I turned away from you this evening when you upsetmy books, for I was in danger at the time, and any show of surpriseand emotion upon your part might have drawn attention to myidentity and led to the most deplorable and irreparable results. Asto Mycroft, I had to confide in him in order to obtain the moneywhich I needed. The course of events in London did not run sowell as I had hoped, for the trial of the Moriarty gang left two ofits most dangerous members, my own most vindictive enemies, atliberty. I travelled for two years in Tibet, therefore, and amusedmyself by visiting Lhassa, and spending some days with the headlama. You may have read of the remarkable explorations of aNorwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure that it never occurredto you that you were receiving news of your friend. I thenpassed through Persia, looked in at Mecca, and paid a short butinteresting visit to the Khalifa at Khartoum the results of whichI have communicated to the Foreign Office. Returning to France,I spent some months in a research into the coal-tar derivatives,which I conducted in a laboratory at Montpellier, in the southof France. Having concluded this to my satisfaction and learningthat only one of my enemies was now left in London, I was aboutto return when my movements were hastened by the news of thisvery remarkable Park Lane Mystery, which not only appealedto me by its own merits, but which seemed to offer some mostpeculiar personal opportunities. I came over at once to London,called in my own person at Baker Street, threw Mrs. Hudsoninto violent hysterics, and found that Mycroft had preserved myrooms and my papers exactly as they had always been. So it was,my dear Watson, that at two o’clock to-day I found myself in myold armchair in my own old room, and only wishing that I couldhave seen my old friend Watson in the other chair which he has sooften adorned.”
Such was the remarkable narrative to which I listened onthat April evening—a narrative which would have been utterlyincredible to me had it not been confirmed by the actual sight ofthe tall, spare figure and the keen, eager face, which I had neverthought to see again. In some manner he had learned of my ownsad bereavement, and his sympathy was shown in his mannerrather than in his words. “Work is the best antidote to sorrow,my dear Watson,” said he; “and I have a piece of work for us bothto-night which, if we can bring it to a successful conclusion, willin itself justify a man’s life on this planet.” In vain I begged himto tell me more. “You will hear and see enough before morning,”
he answered. “We have three years of the past to discuss. Letthat suffice until half-past nine, when we start upon the notableadventure of the empty house.”
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It was indeed like old times when, at that hour, I found myselfseated beside him in a hansom, my revolver in my pocket, and thethrill of adventure in my heart. Holmes was cold and stern andsilent. As the gleam of the street-lamps flashed upon his austerefeatures, I saw that his brows were drawn down in thought and histhin lips compressed. I knew not what wild beast we were aboutto hunt down in the dark jungle of criminal London, but I waswell assured, from the bearing of this master huntsman, that theadventure was a most grave one—while the sardonic smile whichoccasionally broke through his ascetic gloom boded little good forthe object of our quest.
I had imagined that we were bound for Baker Street, butHolmes stopped the cab at the corner of Cavendish Square. Iobserved that as he stepped out he gave a most searching glanceto right and left, and at every subsequent street corner he tookthe utmost pains to assure that he was not followed. Our routewas certainly a singular one. Holmes’s knowledge of the byways ofLondon was extraordinary, and on this occasion he passed rapidlyand with an assured step through a network of mews and stables,the very existence of which I had never known. We emerged atlast into a small road, lined with old, gloomy houses, which ledus into Manchester Street, and so to Blandford Street. Here heturned swiftly down a narrow passage, passed through a woodengate into a deserted yard, and then opened with a key the backdoor of a house. We entered together, and he closed it behind us.