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Ein Skandal in Böhmen ist eine Erzählung des britischen Schriftstellers Arthur Conan Doyle, die erstmals im Juli im Strand Magazine erschien. Es handelt sich hierbei um die erste Erzählung, die Doyle mit den Figuren Sherlock Holmes und Dr. Ein Skandal in Böhmen (Originaltitel: A Scandal in Bohemia) ist eine Erzählung des britischen Schriftstellers Arthur Conan Doyle, die erstmals im Juli im. Arthur Conan Doyle - A Scandal in Bohemia - Ein Skandal in Böhmen - Read bilingual English German. I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room. A Scandal in Bohemia: The adventures of Sherlock Holmes Arthur Conan Doyle Collection, Band 1: wellnesstestcentre.online: Doyle, Arthur Conan, Fresneda, Rubén.
Ein Skandal in Böhmen (Originaltitel: A Scandal in Bohemia) ist eine Erzählung des britischen Schriftstellers Arthur Conan Doyle, die erstmals im Juli im. Listen to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle now. Listen to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in full in the Spotify app. Play on Spotify. Playing. A Scandal in Bohemia, Part 2. Ein Skandal in Böhmen (A Scandal in Bohemia) ist die erste veröffentlichte Kurzgeschichte von Sir. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in Hd World Down way:. Sie kennen Sie nicht, aber sie hat ein Herz aus Stahl. Written, directed, produced, and acted by Inspire theatre students. Welch eine Königin hätte sie abgegeben! I could not help laughing Flame Marke the ease with which he explained his process of deduction. Gleitschirmfliegen [PDF]. Ich klingelte und wurde in das Zimmer Erotik Guide, das früher zur Hälfte auch meines gewesen war.
Watson also tells that, since their meeting, Holmes always refers to her by the honorable title of " the woman". In the opening paragraph of the short story, Watson calls her "the late Irene Adler", suggesting she is deceased.
It has been speculated, however, that the word "late" might actually mean "former". She married Godfrey Norton, making Adler her former name.
Doyle employs this same usage in " The Adventure of the Priory School " in reference to the Duke's former status as a cabinet minister.
Adler earns Holmes' unbounded admiration. To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name.
In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind.
He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position.
He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer—excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions.
But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results.
Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his.
And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory. This "memory" is kept alive by a photograph of Irene Adler, which had been deliberately left behind when she and her new husband took flight with the embarrassing photograph of her with the King.
Holmes had then asked for and received this photo from the King, as payment for his work on the case. In derivative works, she is frequently used as a romantic interest for Holmes, a departure from Doyle's novels where he only admired her for her wit and cunning.
The Broadway musical Baker Street was loosely based on the story, making Irene Adler into the heroine and adding Professor Moriarty as the villain.
However, they ended up falling in love, complicating the plan and forcing Moriarty to intervene when Holmes begins investigating on behalf of the King.
The story was adapted as a silent short film as part of the Stoll film series starring Eille Norwood as Holmes.
Watson, features several references to "A Scandal in Bohemia", with Holmes and Watson discussing the recent publication of the story in The Strand Magazine albeit anachronistically, the film takes place in its current day , and the villain of the film using the same trick on Watson that Holmes uses on Irene Adler in the story.
Michael Hardwick adapted the story as a radio production which aired on the BBC Light Programme in , as part of the — radio series.
Marian Seldes played Irene Adler. Watson and Olga Edwardes as Irene Adler. Intermingled with the plot, the title character Wishbone portrays Sherlock Holmes in a slightly modified adaptation of the original story to compare with the events of the "real-life" plot.
The plot of the short story — Holmes and Watson attempting to recover incriminating photos from Adler — is covered briefly in the first half of the episode updated for the contemporary period Adler's photos are stored digitally on her mobile phone and adjusted the royal they incriminate is British and female ; the episode then moves on to a storyline based on other Sherlock Holmes stories and films while including Adler, Mycroft Holmes Mark Gatiss and Jim Moriarty.
Holmes is a pupil of an imaginary boarding school Beeton School. One day he pretends to be ill and goes to the nurse's office to search the photo that Headmaster Ormstein and school nurse Irene Adler are in.
But Adler sees through his feigned illness. Then Holmes and his roommate John H. Watson make a false fire to find the photo but she penetrates their wiles and tells Holmes that she returned the photo to Ormstein.
The hereditary king makes an appearance in a season six episode of Elementary entitled "Breathe. Rather than creating a fictional country for the King in his story, Conan Doyle chose to place a fictional dynasty in a real country.
At the time of writing, however, Sweden and Norway , the two countries of the Scandinavian peninsula , were politically united , and this might have been the "kingdom of Scandinavia" Conan Doyle meant.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. This article is about a short story by Arthur Conan Doyle. They all go their separate ways after the small ceremony.
Watson has been waiting for Holmes to arrive back at his apartment. Sherlock is amused by the earlier events and fills Watson in on them when he arrives.
Watson agrees to be part of a plan to discover where Irene has hidden the picture. A group of men is standing on the street, and when she arrives, they fight over who will get to help her.
Holmes rushes over to protect her and seems to be hurt in the scuffle. Irene takes him into her apartment, where he is laid on the couch to recover.
Holmes now knows its hiding place. He tells Watson that he was unable to take it at that moment because he was being watched, but that he will return later.
At that moment, the two men are bid goodnight by a familiar-sounding youth, who slips away in the crowd.
Instead of the photograph of her and the king, Holmes finds only a photograph of her in an evening dress, and a letter addressed to him.
And, first, one or two questions, Mr. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement—how long had he been with you?
Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead. Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two.
To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify.
But I must be prompt over this matter. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.
Could your patients spare you for a few hours? I am going through the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French.
It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along! We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to in the morning.
It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere.
Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids.
Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.
I have known something of him before. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square.
Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it. The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back.
It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians.
It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just quitted.
It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. That carries us right on to the other block.
A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit.
All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive.
In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in him.
The swing of his nature took him from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions.
Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals.
When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. This business at Coburg Square is serious. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it.
But to-day being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes.
Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque.
What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation.
It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street.
Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.
Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down. Merryweather gloomily. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official force.
It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber. For you, Mr.
Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford.
His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession.
It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon.
We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also.
He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone.
Here we are, and they are waiting for us. We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr.
Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate.
This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate.
Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.
Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the floor. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones.
A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket.
Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their escape.
We are at present, Doctor—as no doubt you have divined—in the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks.
Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at present.
We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for that purpose 30, napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar.
The crate upon which I sit contains 2, napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject.
I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern.
And, first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful.
I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly.
If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down. I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched.
Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness—such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced.
To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.
I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones? What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us.
My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director.
From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light. At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement.
Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area of light.
For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern.
Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge.
In another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.
Great Scott! Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts.
You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you. Just hold out while I fix the derbies. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.
There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.
It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week.
From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation.
That, however, was out of the question. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue.
Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London.
He was doing something in the cellar—something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some other building.
I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind.
It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before.
I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing.
The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen.
But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape.
For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night. I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence.
These little problems help me to do so. He shrugged his shoulders. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence.
We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor artistic.
Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace. I smiled and shook my head. Here is the first heading upon which I come.
There is, of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude.
The husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller.
Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example. He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid.
Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it. It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers.
They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation.
The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive.
In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any features of interest.
It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken.
He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street.
Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear.
From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons.
Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of the bell.
She would like advice, but is not sure that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may discriminate.
When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved.
But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts. As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat.
Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.
Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me? Etherege, whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him up for dead.
Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. Hosmer Angel. Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland.
Windibank—that is, my father—took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away to you.
I call him father, though it sounds funny, too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself. Father was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr.
Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines.
I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.
It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest.
Of course, that is only just for the time. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting.
It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself.
Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere.
He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to prevent?
And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went, mother and I, with Mr.
Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Windibank came back from France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball.
He laughed, I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a woman, for she would have her way.
I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we had got home all safe, and after that we met him—that is to say, Mr.
Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more. But then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got mine yet.
We could write in the meantime, and he used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was no need for father to know.
We were engaged after the first walk that we took. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think of.
Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel? He would rather walk with me in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be conspicuous.
Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was gentle. He was always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare.
Windibank, your stepfather, returned to France? Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should marry before father came back.
He was in dreadful earnest and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion.
Mother was all in his favour from the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to mind about father, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with him.
Your wedding was arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be in church? It was to be at St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street.
We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the cabman got down from the box and looked there was no one there!
The cabman said that he could not imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes.
That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since then to throw any light upon what became of him. He was too good and kind to leave me so.
Why, all the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later.
It seemed strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a meaning to it. Your own opinion is, then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?
I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened. As he said, what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then leaving me?
Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer was very independent about money and never would look at a shilling of mine.
And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not write? Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it further.
Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life. I should like an accurate description of him and any letters of his which you can spare.
You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life.
Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back. For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect.
She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.
Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling.
Then he took down from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.
Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive.
You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace.
Describe it. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves.
Her gloves were greyish and were worn through at the right forefinger. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.
You have really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for colour.
Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser.
As you observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully defined.
The sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was.
I then glanced at her face, and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her.
I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one.
One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry.
You observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink.
She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger.
All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr.
I held the little printed slip to the light. About five ft. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots.
Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Absolutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you.
There is a date, you see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive—in fact, we may call it conclusive.
However, I shall write two letters, which should settle the matter. It is just as well that we should do business with the male relatives.
And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the interim.
Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary circumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.
I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.
A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his armchair.
A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.
I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some of the details are of interest.
The only drawback is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel. The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a tap at the door.
Come in! The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating grey eyes.
He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair.
I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash linen of the sort in public.
It was quite against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a point.
Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised abroad.
Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel? Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves.
Unless they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr.
It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man.
They are all typewritten. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. Windibank, turning white to his lips and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.
It is quite too transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question.
Sit down and let us talk it over. Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter of moisture on his brow. But between ourselves, Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty way as ever came before me.
Now, let me just run over the course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong. The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his breast, like one who is utterly crushed.
Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.
It was a considerable sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference.Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. What a queen she would have made! Sherlock Holmes finds himself evenly matched when he is employed by the King of Bohemia to retrieve an indiscreet photograph from the American actress and singer, Irene Adler. But the deception could not be kept up forever. I tried 3.Liga Online puzzle it out, but gave it up in Hotmaim and set the Seit Seid Regel aside until night should bring an explanation.