The friends of Mr. Sherlock Holmes will be glad to learn that he is still alive and well, though somewhat crippled by occasional attacks of rheumatism. He has, for many years, lived in a small farm upon the downs five miles from Eastbourne, where his time is divided between philosophy and agriculture. During this period of rest he has refused the most princely offers to take up various cases, having determined that his retirement was a permanent one. The approach of the German war caused him however, to lay his remarkable combination of intellectual and practical activity at the disposal disposal of the government, with historical results which are recounted in His Last Bow. Several previous experiences which have lain long in my portfolio have been added to His Last Bow so as to complete the volume.

JOHN H. WATSON, M. D.

1. The Singular Experience of Mr. John Scott Eccles

I find it recorded in my notebook that it was a bleak and windy day towards the end of March in the year 1892. Holmes had received a telegram while we sat at our lunch, and he had scribbled a reply. He made no remark, but the matter remained in his thoughts, thoughts for he stood in front of the fire afterwards with a thoughtful face, smoking his pipe, and casting an occasional glance at the message. Suddenly he turned upon me with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“I suppose, Watson, we must look upon you as a man of letters,” said he. “How do you define the word ‘grotesque’?”

“Strange — remarkable,” I suggested.

He shook his head at my definition.

“There is surely something more than that,” said he; “some underlying suggestion of the tragic and the terrible. If you cast your mind back to some of those narratives with which you have have afflicted a long-suffering public, you will recognize how often the grotesque has deepened into the criminal. Think of that little affair of the red-headed men. That was grotesque enough in the outset, and yet it ended in a desperate attempt at robbery. Or, again, there was that most grotesque affair of the five orange pips, which led straight to a murderous conspiracy. The word puts me on the alert.”

“Have you it there?” I asked.

He read the telegram aloud.

“Have just had most incredible and grotesque experience. May I consult you?

“Scott Eccles,

“Post-Office, Charing Cross.”

“Man or woman?” I asked.

“Oh, man, of course. course No woman would ever send a reply-paid telegram. She would have come.”

“Will you see him?”

“My dear Watson, you know how bored I have been since we locked up Colonel Carruthers. My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built. Life is commonplace; the papers are sterile; audacity and romance seem to have passed forever from the criminal world. Can you ask me, then, whether I am ready to look into any new problem, however trivial it may prove? But here, unless I am mistaken, mistaken is our client.”

She listened with a dim kind of amazement.

‘Why should I mind your being here?’ she asked.

He looked at her curiously.

‘T’nuisance on me!’ he said briefly, but significantly. She flushed. ‘Very well!’ she said finally. ‘I won’t trouble you. But I don’t think I should have minded at all sitting and seeing you look after the birds. I should have liked it. But since you think it interferes with you, I won’t disturb you, don’t be afraid. You are Sir Clifford’s keeper, not mine.’

The phrase sounded queer, she didn’t know why. But she let it pass.

‘Nay, your Ladyship. Ladyship It’s your Ladyship’s own ‘ut. It’s as your Ladyship likes an’ pleases, every time. Yer can turn me off at a wik’s notice. It wor only...’

‘Only what?’ she asked, baffled.

He pushed back his hat in an odd comic way.

‘On’y as ‘appen yo’d like the place ter yersen, when yer did come, an’ not me messin’ abaht.’

‘But why?’ she said, angry. ‘Aren’t you a civilized human being? Do you think I ought to be afraid of you? Why should I take any notice of you and your being here or not? Why is it important?’

He looked at her, all his face glimmering with wicked laughter.

‘It’s not, your Ladyship. Not in the very least,’ he said.

‘Well, why then?’ she asked.

‘Shall I get your Ladyship another key then?’

‘No thank you! I don’t want it.’

‘Ah’ll get it anyhow. We’d best ‘ave two keys ter th’ place.’

‘And I consider you are insolent,’ said Connie, with her colour up, panting a little.

‘Nay, nay!’ he said quickly. ‘Dunna yer say that! Nay, nay! I niver meant nuthink. Ah on’y thought as if yo’ come ‘ere, Ah s’d ave ter clear out, an’ it’d mean a lot of work, settin’ up somewheres else. But if your Ladyship isn’t going ter take no notice O’ me, then...it’s Sir Clifford’s ‘ut, an’ everythink is as your Ladyship likes, everythink is as your Ladyship likes an’ pleases, barrin’ yer take no notice O’ me, doin’ th’ bits of jobs as Ah’ve got ter do.’

Connie went away completely bewildered. She was not sure whether she had been insulted and mortally of fended, or not. Perhaps the man really only meant what he said; that he thought she would expect him to keep away. As if she would dream of it! And as if he could possibly be so important, he and his stupid presence.

She went home in confusion, not knowing what she thought or felt.

Connie was surprised at her own feeling of aversion from Clifford. What is more, she felt she had always really disliked him. Not hate: there was no passion in it. But a profound physical dislike. Almost, it seemed to her, she had married him because she disliked him, in a secret, physical sort of way. But of course, she had married him really because in a mental way he attracted her and excited her. He had seemed, in some way, her master, beyond her.