The note was undated, and without either signature or address.
“There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it
said, “a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest
moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe
have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of
an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from
all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do not take it
amiss if your visitor wear a mask.”
“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine that it
means?”
“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has
data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of
theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from it?”
I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was
written.
“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked,
endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could not be
bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff.”
“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is not an English
paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”
I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and a large “G”
with a small “t” woven into the texture of the paper.
“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.
“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”
“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for ‘Gesellschaft,’
which is the German for ‘Company.’ It is a customary contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the
‘Eg.’ Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown
volume from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a
German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far
from Carl*****ad.
‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its
numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of
that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his
cigarette.
“The paper was made in Bohemia,”
I said.
“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the
peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have from all
quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is
the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to
discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and
prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not
mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.”
As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating
wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled.
“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued, glancing out of
the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty
guineas apiece. There’s money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else.”
“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”
“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell.
And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”
“But your client—”
“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes.
Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”
A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the
passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and
authoritative tap.
“Come in!” said Holmes.
A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches
in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a
richness which would, in England,
be looked upon as akin to bad taste. 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. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at
the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence
which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in
his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past
the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very
moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part
of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging
lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of
obstinacy.
“You had my note?” he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly
marked German accent. “I told you that I would call.” He looked from one to the
other of us, as if uncertain which to address.
“Pray take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr.
Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the
honour to address?”
“You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I
understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion,
whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should
much prefer to communicate with you alone.”
I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into
my chair. “It is both, or none,” said he. “You may say before this gentleman
anything which you may say to me.”
The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I must begin,” said he,
“by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time
the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that
it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history.”
“I promise,” said Holmes.
“And I.”
“You will excuse this mask,” continued our strange visitor. “The august
person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess
at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my
own.”
“I was aware of it,” said Holmes dryly.
“The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to
be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously
compromise one of the reigning families of Europe.
To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary
kings of Bohemia.”
“I was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in
his armchair and closing his eyes.
Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid,
lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most
incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe.
Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client.
“If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I
should be better able to advise you.”
The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable
agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face
and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why
should I attempt to conceal it?”
“Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I
was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein,
Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.”
“But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once
more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, “you can understand
that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the
matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting
myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.”
“Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.
“The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy
visit 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.
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