













The Sign of the Four


By

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle




Contents





Chapter I

The Science of Deduction

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and
his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long,
white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back
his left shirt-cuff.  For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully
upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with
innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home,
pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined
arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but
custom had not reconciled my mind to it.  On the contrary, from day to
day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled
nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to
protest.  Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver
my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the cool, nonchalant
air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would
care to take anything approaching to a liberty.  His great powers, his
masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many
extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing
him.

Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken
with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme
deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no
longer.

"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?"

"No, indeed," I answered, brusquely.  "My constitution has not got over
the Afghan campaign yet.  I cannot afford to throw any extra strain
upon it."

He smiled at my vehemence.  "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said.
"I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one.  I find it,
however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that
its secondary action is a matter of small moment."

"But consider!" I said, earnestly.  "Count the cost!  Your brain may,
as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid
process, which involves increased tissue-change and may at last leave a
permanent weakness.  You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon
you.  Surely the game is hardly worth the candle.  Why should you, for
a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which
you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to
another, but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to
some extent answerable."

He did not seem offended.  On the contrary, he put his finger-tips
together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who
has a relish for conversation.

"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation.  Give me problems, give me
work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate
analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere.  I can dispense then
with artificial stimulants.  But I abhor the dull routine of existence.
I crave for mental exaltation.  That is why I have chosen my own
particular profession,--or rather created it, for I am the only one in
the world."

"The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows.

"The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered.  "I am the
last and highest court of appeal in detection.  When Gregson or
Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths--which, by the way,
is their normal state--the matter is laid before me.  I examine the
data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's opinion.  I claim no
credit in such cases.  My name figures in no newspaper.  The work
itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my
highest reward.  But you have yourself had some experience of my
methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case."

"Yes, indeed," said I, cordially.  "I was never so struck by anything
in my life.  I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat
fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.'"

He shook his head sadly.  "I glanced over it," said he. "Honestly, I
cannot congratulate you upon it.  Detection is, or ought to be, an
exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional
manner.  You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which
produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an
elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."

"But the romance was there," I remonstrated.  "I could not tamper with
the facts."

"Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of
proportion should be observed in treating them.  The only point in the
case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from
effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it."

I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially
designed to please him.  I confess, too, that I was irritated by the
egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be
devoted to his own special doings.  More than once during the years
that I had lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small
vanity underlay my companion's quiet and didactic manner.  I made no
remark, however, but sat nursing my wounded leg.  I had a Jezail bullet
through it some time before, and, though it did not prevent me from
walking, it ached wearily at every change of the weather.

"My practice has extended recently to the Continent," said Holmes,
after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe.  "I was consulted
last week by Francois Le Villard, who, as you probably know, has come
rather to the front lately in the French detective service.  He has all
the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in the wide
range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher developments
of his art.  The case was concerned with a will, and possessed some
features of interest.  I was able to refer him to two parallel cases,
the one at Riga in 1857, and the other at St. Louis in 1871, which have
suggested to him the true solution.  Here is the letter which I had
this morning acknowledging my assistance."  He tossed over, as he
spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I glanced my eyes down
it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray
"magnifiques," "coup-de-maitres," and "tours-de-force," all testifying
to the ardent admiration of the Frenchman.

"He speaks as a pupil to his master," said I.

"Oh, he rates my assistance too highly," said Sherlock Holmes, lightly.
"He has considerable gifts himself.  He possesses two out of the three
qualities necessary for the ideal detective.  He has the power of
observation and that of deduction.  He is only wanting in knowledge;
and that may come in time.  He is now translating my small works into
French."

"Your works?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" he cried, laughing.  "Yes, I have been guilty of
several monographs.  They are all upon technical subjects.  Here, for
example, is one 'Upon the Distinction between the Ashes of the Various
Tobaccoes.'  In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of cigar-,
cigarette-, and pipe-tobacco, with  plates illustrating the
difference in the ash.  It is a point which is continually turning up
in criminal trials, and which is sometimes of supreme importance as a
clue.  If you can say definitely, for example, that some murder has
been done by a man who was smoking an Indian lunkah, it obviously
narrows your field of search.  To the trained eye there is as much
difference between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff
of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato."

"You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae," I remarked.

"I appreciate their importance.  Here is my monograph upon the tracing
of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris as a
preserver of impresses. Here, too, is a curious little work upon the
influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes of the
hands of slaters, sailors, corkcutters, compositors, weavers, and
diamond-polishers.  That is a matter of great practical interest to the
scientific detective,--especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or in
discovering the antecedents of criminals.  But I weary you with my
hobby."

"Not at all," I answered, earnestly.  "It is of the greatest interest
to me, especially since I have had the opportunity of observing your
practical application of it.  But you spoke just now of observation and
deduction.  Surely the one to some extent implies the other."

"Why, hardly," he answered, leaning back luxuriously in his arm-chair,
and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipe.  "For example,
observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street
Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets me know that when there
you dispatched a telegram."

"Right!" said I.  "Right on both points!  But I confess that I don't
see how you arrived at it.  It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I
have mentioned it to no one."

"It is simplicity itself," he remarked, chuckling at my surprise,--"so
absurdly simple that an explanation is superfluous; and yet it may
serve to define the limits of observation and of deduction.
Observation tells me that you have a little reddish mould adhering to
your instep.  Just opposite the Seymour Street Office they have taken
up the pavement and thrown up some earth which lies in such a way that
it is difficult to avoid treading in it in entering.  The earth is of
this peculiar reddish tint which is found, as far as I know, nowhere
else in the neighborhood.  So much is observation.  The rest is
deduction."

"How, then, did you deduce the telegram?"

"Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat
opposite to you all morning.  I see also in your open desk there that
you have a sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of post-cards.  What
could you go into the post-office for, then, but to send a wire?
Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the
truth."

"In this case it certainly is so," I replied, after a little thought.
"The thing, however, is, as you say, of the simplest. Would you think
me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe test?"

"On the contrary," he answered, "it would prevent me from taking a
second dose of cocaine.  I should be delighted to look into any problem
which you might submit to me."

"I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any object
in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality upon it
in such a way that a trained observer might read it.  Now, I have here
a watch which has recently come into my possession.  Would you have the
kindness to let me have an opinion upon the character or habits of the
late owner?"

I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my
heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I
intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he
occasionally assumed.  He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at
the dial, opened the back, and examined the works, first with his naked
eyes and then with a powerful convex lens.  I could hardly keep from
smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and
handed it back.

"There are hardly any data," he remarked.  "The watch has been recently
cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts."

"You are right," I answered.  "It was cleaned before being sent to me."
In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward a most lame and
impotent excuse to cover his failure.  What data could he expect from
an uncleaned watch?

"Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been entirely barren," he
observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lack-lustre eyes.
"Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to
your elder brother, who inherited it from your father."

"That you gather, no doubt, from the H. W. upon the back?"

"Quite so.  The W. suggests your own name.  The date of the watch is
nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch:  so
it was made for the last generation.  Jewelry usually descends to the
eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father.
Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years.  It has,
therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother."

"Right, so far," said I.  "Anything else?"

"He was a man of untidy habits,--very untidy and careless.  He was left
with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for some time
in poverty with occasional short intervals of prosperity, and finally,
taking to drink, he died.  That is all I can gather."

I sprang from my chair and limped impatiently about the room with
considerable bitterness in my heart.

"This is unworthy of you, Holmes," I said.  "I could not have believed
that you would have descended to this.  You have made inquires into the
history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this
knowledge in some fanciful way.  You cannot expect me to believe that
you have read all this from his old watch!  It is unkind, and, to speak
plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it."

"My dear doctor," said he, kindly, "pray accept my apologies. Viewing
the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal and
painful a thing it might be to you.  I assure you, however, that I
never even knew that you had a brother until you handed me the watch."

"Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get these facts?
They are absolutely correct in every particular."

"Ah, that is good luck.  I could only say what was the balance of
probability.  I did not at all expect to be so accurate."

"But it was not mere guess-work?"

"No, no:  I never guess.  It is a shocking habit,--destructive to the
logical faculty.  What seems strange to you is only so because you do
not follow my train of thought or observe the small facts upon which
large inferences may depend.  For example, I began by stating that your
brother was careless.  When you observe the lower part of that
watch-case you notice that it is not only dinted in two places, but it
is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard
objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket.  Surely it is no
great feat to assume that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so
cavalierly must be a careless man.  Neither is it a very far-fetched
inference that a man who inherits one article of such value is pretty
well provided for in other respects."

I nodded, to show that I followed his reasoning.

"It is very customary for pawnbrokers in England, when they take a
watch, to scratch the number of the ticket with a pin-point upon the
inside of the case.  It is more handy than a label, as there is no risk
of the number being lost or transposed.  There are no less than four
such numbers visible to my lens on the inside of this case.
Inference,--that your brother was often at low water.  Secondary
inference,--that he had occasional bursts of prosperity, or he could
not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I ask you to look at the inner
plate, which contains the key-hole.  Look at the thousands of scratches
all round the hole,--marks where the key has slipped.  What sober man's
key could have scored those grooves?  But you will never see a
drunkard's watch without them.  He winds it at night, and he leaves
these traces of his unsteady hand.  Where is the mystery in all this?"

"It is as clear as daylight," I answered.  "I regret the injustice
which I did you.  I should have had more faith in your marvellous
faculty.  May I ask whether you have any professional inquiry on foot
at present?"

"None.  Hence the cocaine.  I cannot live without brain-work. What else
is there to live for?  Stand at the window here.  Was ever such a
dreary, dismal, unprofitable world?  See how the yellow fog swirls down
the street and drifts across the dun- houses.  What could be
more hopelessly prosaic and material?  What is the use of having
powers, doctor, when one has no field upon which to exert them?  Crime
is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those
which are commonplace have any function upon earth."

I had opened my mouth to reply to this tirade, when with a crisp knock
our landlady entered, bearing a card upon the brass salver.

"A young lady for you, sir," she said, addressing my companion.

"Miss Mary Morstan," he read.  "Hum!  I have no recollection of the
name.  Ask the young lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson.  Don't go, doctor.
I should prefer that you remain."



Chapter II

The Statement of the Case

Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward composure
of manner.  She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well gloved,
and dressed in the most perfect taste.  There was, however, a plainness
and simplicity about her costume which bore with it a suggestion of
limited means.  The dress was a sombre grayish beige, untrimmed and
unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved
only by a suspicion of white feather in the side.  Her face had neither
regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was
sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual
and sympathetic.  In an experience of women which extends over many
nations and three separate continents, I have never looked upon a face
which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature. I could
not but observe that as she took the seat which Sherlock Holmes placed
for her, her lip trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every sign
of intense inward agitation.

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "because you once enabled
my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic
complication.  She was much impressed by your kindness and skill."

"Mrs. Cecil Forrester," he repeated thoughtfully.  "I believe that I
was of some slight service to her.  The case, however, as I remember
it, was a very simple one."

"She did not think so.  But at least you cannot say the same of mine.
I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly inexplicable,
than the situation in which I find myself."

Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened.  He leaned forward in
his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his
clear-cut, hawklike features.  "State your case," said he, in brisk,
business tones.

I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.  "You will, I am sure,
excuse me," I said, rising from my chair.

To my surprise, the young lady held up her gloved hand to detain me.
"If your friend," she said, "would be good enough to stop, he might be
of inestimable service to me."

I relapsed into my chair.

"Briefly," she continued, "the facts are these.  My father was an
officer in an Indian regiment who sent me home when I was quite a
child.  My mother was dead, and I had no relative in England.  I was
placed, however, in a comfortable boarding establishment at Edinburgh,
and there I remained until I was seventeen years of age.  In the year
1878 my father, who was senior captain of his regiment, obtained twelve
months' leave and came home.  He telegraphed to me from London that he
had arrived all safe, and directed me to come down at once, giving the
Langham Hotel as his address.  His message, as I remember, was full of
kindness and love.  On reaching London I drove to the Langham, and was
informed that Captain Morstan was staying there, but that he had gone
out the night before and had not yet returned. I waited all day without
news of him.  That night, on the advice of the manager of the hotel, I
communicated with the police, and next morning we advertised in all the
papers.  Our inquiries led to no result; and from that day to this no
word has ever been heard of my unfortunate father.  He came home with
his heart full of hope, to find some peace, some comfort, and
instead--"  She put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short
the sentence.

"The date?" asked Holmes, opening his note-book.

"He disappeared upon the 3d of December, 1878,--nearly ten years ago."

"His luggage?"

"Remained at the hotel.  There was nothing in it to suggest a
clue,--some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of
curiosities from the Andaman Islands.  He had been one of the officers
in charge of the convict-guard there."

"Had he any friends in town?"

"Only one that we know of,--Major Sholto, of his own regiment, the 34th
Bombay Infantry.  The major had retired some little time before, and
lived at Upper Norwood.  We communicated with him, of course, but he
did not even know that his brother officer was in England."

"A singular case," remarked Holmes.

"I have not yet described to you the most singular part.  About six
years ago--to be exact, upon the 4th of May, 1882--an advertisement
appeared in the Times asking for the address of Miss Mary Morstan and
stating that it would be to her advantage to come forward.  There was
no name or address appended.  I had at that time just entered the
family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of governess.  By her
advice I published my address in the advertisement column.  The same
day there arrived through the post a small card-board box addressed to
me, which I found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl.  No word
of writing was enclosed.  Since then every year upon the same date
there has always appeared a similar box, containing a similar pearl,
without any clue as to the sender.  They have been pronounced by an
expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value.  You can see
for yourselves that they are very handsome."  She opened a flat box as
she spoke, and showed me six of the finest pearls that I had ever seen.

"Your statement is most interesting," said Sherlock Holmes.  "Has
anything else occurred to you?"

"Yes, and no later than to-day.  That is why I have come to you. This
morning I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for
yourself."

"Thank you," said Holmes.  "The envelope too, please.  Postmark,
London, S.W.  Date, July 7.  Hum!  Man's thumb-mark on
corner,--probably postman.  Best quality paper.  Envelopes at sixpence
a packet.  Particular man in his stationery.  No address.  'Be at the
third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre to-night at seven
o'clock.  If you are distrustful, bring two friends.  You are a wronged
woman, and shall have justice.  Do not bring police.  If you do, all
will be in vain.  Your unknown friend.'  Well, really, this is a very
pretty little mystery. What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?"

"That is exactly what I want to ask you."

"Then we shall most certainly go.  You and I and--yes, why, Dr. Watson
is the very man.  Your correspondent says two friends.  He and I have
worked together before."

"But would he come?" she asked, with something appealing in her voice
and expression.

"I should be proud and happy," said I, fervently, "if I can be of any
service."

"You are both very kind," she answered.  "I have led a retired life,
and have no friends whom I could appeal to.  If I am here at six it
will do, I suppose?"

"You must not be later," said Holmes.  "There is one other point,
however.  Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box
addresses?"

"I have them here," she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of
paper.

"You are certainly a model client.  You have the correct intuition.
Let us see, now."  He spread out the papers upon the table, and gave
little darting glances from one to the other. "They are disguised
hands, except the letter," he said, presently, "but there can be no
question as to the authorship. See how the irrepressible Greek e will
break out, and see the twirl of the final s.  They are undoubtedly by
the same person. I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss
Morstan, but is there any resemblance between this hand and that of
your father?"

"Nothing could be more unlike."

"I expected to hear you say so.  We shall look out for you, then, at
six.  Pray allow me to keep the papers.  I may look into the matter
before then.  It is only half-past three.  Au revoir, then."

"Au revoir," said our visitor, and, with a bright, kindly glance from
one to the other of us, she replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and
hurried away.  Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly
down the street, until the gray turban and white feather were but a
speck in the sombre crowd.

"What a very attractive woman!" I exclaimed, turning to my companion.

He had lit his pipe again, and was leaning back with drooping eyelids.
"Is she?" he said, languidly.  "I did not observe."

"You really are an automaton,--a calculating-machine!" I cried. "There
is something positively inhuman in you at times."

He smiled gently.  "It is of the first importance," he said, "not to
allow your judgment to be biased by personal qualities.  A client is to
me a mere unit,--a factor in a problem.  The emotional qualities are
antagonistic to clear reasoning.  I assure you that the most winning
woman I ever knew was hanged for poisoning three little children for
their insurance-money, and the most repellant man of my acquaintance is
a philanthropist who has spent nearly a quarter of a million upon the
London poor."

"In this case, however--"

"I never make exceptions.  An exception disproves the rule.  Have you
ever had occasion to study character in handwriting?  What do you make
of this fellow's scribble?"

"It is legible and regular," I answered.  "A man of business habits and
some force of character."

Holmes shook his head.  "Look at his long letters," he said. "They
hardly rise above the common herd.  That d might be an a, and that l an
e.  Men of character always differentiate their long letters, however
illegibly they may write.  There is vacillation in his k's and
self-esteem in his capitals.  I am going out now.  I have some few
references to make.  Let me recommend this book,--one of the most
remarkable ever penned.  It is Winwood Reade's 'Martyrdom of Man.'  I
shall be back in an hour."

I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were
far from the daring speculations of the writer.  My mind ran upon our
late visitor,--her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the
strange mystery which overhung her life.  If she were seventeen at the
time of her father's disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now,--a
sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a
little sobered by experience.  So I sat and mused, until such dangerous
thoughts came into my head that I hurried away to my desk and plunged
furiously into the latest treatise upon pathology.  What was I, an army
surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker banking-account, that I should
dare to think of such things?  She was a unit, a factor,--nothing more.
If my future were black, it was better surely to face it like a man
than to attempt to brighten it by mere will-o'-the-wisps of the
imagination.



Chapter III

In Quest of a Solution

It was half-past five before Holmes returned.  He was bright, eager,
and in excellent spirits,--a mood which in his case alternated with
fits of the blackest depression.

"There is no great mystery in this matter," he said, taking the cup of
tea which I had poured out for him.  "The facts appear to admit of only
one explanation."

"What! you have solved it already?"

"Well, that would be too much to say. I have discovered a suggestive
fact, that is all.  It is, however, VERY suggestive. The details are
still to be added.  I have just found, on consulting the back files of
the Times, that Major Sholto, of Upper Norword, late of the 34th Bombay
Infantry, died upon the 28th of April, 1882."

"I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests."

"No?  You surprise me.  Look at it in this way, then.  Captain Morstan
disappears.  The only person in London whom he could have visited is
Major Sholto.  Major Sholto denies having heard that he was in London.
Four years later Sholto dies.  WITHIN A WEEK OF HIS DEATH Captain
Morstan's daughter receives a valuable present, which is repeated from
year to year, and now culminates in a letter which describes her as a
wronged woman.  What wrong can it refer to except this deprivation of
her father?  And why should the presents begin immediately after
Sholto's death, unless it is that Sholto's heir knows something of the
mystery and desires to make compensation?  Have you any alternative
theory which will meet the facts?"

"But what a strange compensation!  And how strangely made!  Why, too,
should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, the
letter speaks of giving her justice.  What justice can she have?  It is
too much to suppose that her father is still alive.  There is no other
injustice in her case that you know of."

"There are difficulties; there are certainly difficulties," said
Sherlock Holmes, pensively.  "But our expedition of to-night will solve
them all.  Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Morstan is inside.  Are
you all ready?  Then we had better go down, for it is a little past the
hour."

I picked up my hat and my heaviest stick, but I observed that Holmes
took his revolver from his drawer and slipped it into his pocket.  It
was clear that he thought that our night's work might be a serious one.

Miss Morstan was muffled in a dark cloak, and her sensitive face was
composed, but pale.  She must have been more than woman if she did not
feel some uneasiness at the strange enterprise upon which we were
embarking, yet her self-control was perfect, and she readily answered
the few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her.

"Major Sholto was a very particular friend of papa's," she said. "His
letters were full of allusions to the major.  He and papa were in
command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown a
great deal together.  By the way, a curious paper was found in papa's
desk which no one could understand.  I don't suppose that it is of the
slightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it