to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler.

The name is no doubt familiar to you.”


“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without

opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all

paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a

subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this

case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and

that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.


“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the

year 1858. Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of

Warsaw—yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in

London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with

this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of

getting those letters back.”


“Precisely so. But how—”


“Was there a secret marriage?”


“None.”


“No legal papers or certificates?”


“None.”


“Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should produce

her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their

authenticity?”


“There is the writing.”


“Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”


“My private note-paper.”


“Stolen.”


“My own seal.”


“Imitated.”


“My photograph.”


“Bought.”


“We were both in the photograph.”


“Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an

indiscretion.”


“I was mad—insane.”


“You have compromised yourself seriously.”


“I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.”


“It must be recovered.”


“We have tried and failed.”


“Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”


“She will not sell.”


“Stolen, then.”


“Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her

house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been