of the engagement when my sister returned and offered no objection to the

marriage; but within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the

wedding, the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only

companion.”


Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his

head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and glanced across at

his visitor.


“Pray be precise as to details,” said he.


“It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is

seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very old,

and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are on the ground

floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of the buildings. Of these

bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott’s, the second my sister’s, and

the third my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open out

into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?”


“Perfectly so.”


“The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal night

Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he had not retired

to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the strong Indian cigars

which it was his custom to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into

mine, where she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At

eleven o’clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door and

looked back.


“‘Tell me, Helen,’ said she, ‘have you ever heard

anyone whistle in the dead of the night?’


“‘Never,’ said I.


“‘I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in

your sleep?’


“‘Certainly not. But why?’


“‘Because during the last few nights I have always, about

three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it

has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from—perhaps from the next

room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you whether you