Chapter 9 Fox Rath tragedy

"It's just so strange," I said, throwing The Times on the floor. "Honestly, I'm surprised the family hasn't come to you for consultation." My friend Sherlock Holmes turned from the window and sank down in his arm-chair. "I suppose you mean the murder of Fox Lars, don't you?" he said slowly. "If so, Watson, this may interest you. Arrived." He took out a buff printout from his dressing gown pocket and handed it to me from the opposite side.It was a telegram, postmarked from Sussex Woods, which read: "Meeting at ten-fifteen precisely for the Adelton affair, Vincent."

I picked up The Times and hastily read the column again. "There is no mention of Vincent in it." "That is of no consequence," replied Holmes irritably. "From the wording of the telegram it may be inferred that he is a lawyer of the old school in the employ of the Adeltons. I think we have a little time to spare, Watson. Please." Please retell the main points of the morning newspaper report, and let me recall the case again. Don't read the irrelevant opinions expressed by the reporter." Sherlock Holmes filled his clay pipe with strong tobacco, leaned back in his chair, and puffed out acrid blue smoke, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

I began: "This tragedy happened at Folkes Russ. It is an old Sussex manor house in the Forest of Relic Hill near the Forest District. There is an old burial ground there, and the mansion That's how it got its weird name..." "Watson, tell the truth." I went on stiffly: "The owner of the property is Colonel Mathias Adelton. Adelton, known as the Squire, is the local magistrate and the wealthiest landowner in the district. Lives in Fox Ruth's family consisted of the squire himself, his nephew Percy Langton, the butler Mosted, and four house servants. In addition, there were porters, grooms and several gamekeepers They are outside servants, and live in the house on the edge of the estate. Squire Adderton and his nephew had supper as usual at eight o'clock last night. After dinner, the squire rode out for about an hour, at ten o'clock. He came home not long ago. He and his nephew were drinking wine together in the living room, and the two seemed to have had a quarrel. The steward said that when he delivered the wine, he noticed the squire's red face and rough attitude."

"I suppose you said that the nephew's name was Langton? And what was his expression?" interrupted Holmes. "According to the steward, he did not see Langton's face, for as soon as he entered the house the young man went to the window and looked out into the night. But the sound of their angry quarrel was heard as the steward withdrew. Shortly after midnight , everyone in the house was awakened by a wild cry. The cry obviously came from the living room. When everyone ran to the living room in their pajamas, they couldn't help being shocked. It turned out that Squire Adderton's head had been split open. Lie unconscious in a pool of blood. Standing beside the dying man is Mr. Percy Langton, in his dressing gown, holding in his hand a blood-stained ax, a medieval executioner's axe. His ax, Holmes, had been drawn from a monumental set of arms which hung over the mantelpiece. Longton, overwhelmed with fright, helped with difficulty to lift the wounded man's head and stanch the bleeding. But, in Moss As Tad bent over him, the squire raised himself on his elbows and struggled to whisper, "It's...Lon...Dum!It's... Lang...! "Before he finished speaking, he fell back and died in the arms of the butler. The local police were called, and Mr. Percy Langton was arrested for killing Squire Adderton. The evidence was: "Nephew The two quarreled, and Langton stood beside the deceased, and the deceased revealed himself before he passed away.I am aware of the recent news that the defendant, who has maintained his innocence, has been transferred to Luwes.That is about all the facts, Holmes. "

My friend was silent for a moment, smoking his pipe. Finally, he asked: "How did Langton explain the quarrel?" "Here it is. He volunteered to tell the police authorities that when he and his uncle talked about the sale of Chadford Grange, the words on both sides became heated. Longton thought that in doing so, it was reducing the property again, and there was no necessary." "again?" "It appears that Squire Addleton has sold other properties during the last two years." I replied, throwing the paper on the couch, "I must admit, Holmes, that I have seldom come across crimes more serious than this." More definite cases!"

"Damn, Watson, very odiously," agreed my friend. "Indeed, assuming the facts are as claimed, I can't imagine why this Mr. Vincent would waste my time. Well, the man we're talking about is going upstairs, unless I'm mistaken." There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson ushered in the visitor. Mr. Vincent was an old man of modest stature, with a long, sad expression on his pale face, and sideburns.He wore a rather scruffy frock-coat, with a pince-nez attached to the lapel of the coat by a black satin ribbon.His short-sighted eyes peered at us for a moment through the pince-nez, hesitating. "That's too bad, Mr. Holmes!" he cried sharply. "I thought I could have a private conversation with you by telegram, sir. No one is allowed to be present. My client's business..."

"This is my colleague, Dr. Watson," interposed Sherlock Holmes, waving his visitor to a chair which I had just drawn out, "I assure you that his presence will be of great value to us. help." Mr. Vincent nodded to me, put his hat and cane on the floor, and sank down on a chair. "Believe me, I mean no offense to you, Dr. Watson," he said sharply, "but to those who love and have good intentions about the Folkes Lars house, it is a dreadful event. Morning, I say, is a dreadful morning." "I believe so," said Holmes. "However, your walk to the station early this morning always restores you somewhat. I have found that exercise itself is a tranquilizer."

Our guest was taken aback by this, and he exclaimed, "Honestly, sir, I don't see how you could..." "Tut! Tsk!" interrupted Holmes impatiently. "A man who travels to the station by train will never get wet mud on his left shoe-cover, nor on the ferrule of his cane." Similar smudges. You've traveled a rough country road, and, because of the dry weather, I think you've waded in water somewhere along the way, or at a transition." "Your reasoning is quite correct, sir," replied Mr. Vincent, looking at Holmes over his pince-nez with the utmost suspicion. "My horse was taken out, and at that hour there were no horses to rent in the village. I had to walk, as you say, and catch a milk train to London. I came here to seek , no, Mr. Holmes, but to my unfortunate young client, Mr. Percy Langton."

Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with closed eyes, resting his chin on the tips of his fingers. "I'm afraid I can't do anything about it," he said. "Dr. Watson has given me the principal facts. They appear to be very incriminating. Who is in charge of the case?" "I have heard that the local police authorities appealed to Scotland Yard on account of the seriousness of the crime and that an Inspector Lestrade was sent by Scotland Yard. . . . . . an Inspector Lestrade was in charge. Perhaps, I should say," continued our visitor, "that I am a senior partner in the law firm of Vincent, Peabody, Vincent in the Woods. At For hundreds of years or more, the Addletons have entrusted us with their interests."

Sherlock Holmes stooped forward, picked up the paper, tapped his fingers quickly in the place where the paragraph had appeared, and without a word handed it to the lawyer. "The report is accurate enough," said the little man mournfully, glancing over the message, "though it says nothing of the fact that the squire had told the butler, Mostedd, that he locked the gate himself, and that when the accident happened The door wasn't locked." Sherlock Holmes raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Unlocked, you say? Well. Well, it may be that Squire Adderton had a quarrel with his nephew and forgot about it. But I don't think there's a point or two that's unclear."

"What is it, sir?" "Is the victim wearing pajamas?" "No, he's fully dressed. Mr. Langton is in pajamas." "The squire is said to have left the house an hour or so after supper. Does he often ride out at night?" Mr. Vincent, who had been stroking his sideburns just now, stopped.He cast a keen eye on Holmes, and said sharply: "You mention that. He is not in the habit of going out at night. But he came home safe and sound. I don't understand. . . . " "That's the way it is," put in Holmes. "Do you think the squire is a rich man? Please answer clearly." "Matius Addleton was a very rich man. He was the younger son, of course, and emigrated to Australia about forty years ago, in 1854. He worked on the Australian goldfields. Amassed a fortune, returned home in the seventies; since his brother was dead, he also inherited the Fox Lars estate. Alas! I can't say against my will that he was loved by his neighbors. He was eccentric , unpopular in the neighbourhood. His position as sheriff made him feared by the worthless people in our country. He was a hard, stern, calculating man." "How is Mr. Percy Langton on good terms with his uncle?" The lawyer hesitated, and finally said: "I'm afraid it's not good. Mr. Percy was the son of the squire's late sister, and he lived in Fox Russ as a child. When the estate passed into his uncle's hands, He stayed to manage the estate. Of course, he was a limited heir, and his inheritance consisted of a house and part of the land. He had expressed displeasure more than once at the sale of certain estates and properties by his uncle. I am afraid that this caused the quarrel between them. Disgust. His wife is absent on other days, but it is unfortunate that she is absent late." "His wife?" "Yes, Langton has a lady, a lovely, modest young woman. Last night he spent the night at a friend's house in East Grinstead, and should be back this morning." Mr. Vincent paused. "Lovely little Mary," he concluded softly, "it's hard for her to come back in these circumstances! The squire is dead, and her husband is accused of murder." "And one last question," said Holmes. "What did your client say about the events of last night?" "His account was very simple, Mr. Holmes. He said that at supper the squire had informed him of his intention to sell Chadford Grange. He advised the squire that it was not necessary to sell it, as it would damage the property. He Uncle lost his temper with him and said angry words after that. Afterwards, his uncle ordered the horses to be ready, and rode away without saying anything. The squire came back and asked for a bottle of wine. Because he felt that the conversation might get louder if he continued. The more fierce Mr. Percy said good night to his uncle, he went back to his own room. However, he was restless and could not sleep. According to him, he sat up twice in bed, as if he heard From the great drawing room came his uncle's voice." "Then why didn't he look at it then?" interposed Holmes sternly. "I asked him that question. He replied that his uncle had been drinking a lot and he thought his uncle had lost his temper alone in the drawing room. Moststead, the housekeeper, confirmed that this has often happened in the past, too." "Please continue." "Just as the clock in the stables struck twelve and he was about to fall asleep, a scream shook the silent mansion, and he awoke with a start. He jumped out of bed, put on his dressing-gown, and grabbed the He lit a candle and ran to the living room downstairs. Seeing the tragic scene in front of him, he shrank back in fright. "The hearth was spattered with blood, both inside and out. Squire Adderton lay in a great crimson pool with his arms raised above his head. Mr. Percy rushed to his uncle, bending over, while his His eyes fell on something that made him sick and faint. Beside Squire Adderton lay an executioner's ax, terribly stained with the blood of his victims. He faintly Recognizing it as one of the monumental weapons that hung on the wall above the fireplace. Without thinking what he was doing, he stooped and picked up the axe. Just then Mosted and Terrified came rushing into the house with my maid. That's what my unfortunate client said." "Ah!" Holmes uttered a voice of surprise.The lawyer and I sat there silently for a long time, watching my friend.He leaned his head back in his chair, closed his eyes, and a faint spiral of smoke rose rapidly from his earthen pipe.There was no expression on his hawk-like face, and only the column of smoke suggested that his thoughts were at work.After a while, he jumped up. "Sucking a little air from the mound of remains will certainly do you no harm, Watson." He said briskly, "Mr. Vincent, my friend and I are completely at your disposal." It was three or four o'clock when we got off at Forest District Station.Mr. Vincent wired a room for us at the Green Man Hotel.The stone inn appeared to be the only building of importance in the village.All around were the low, round Sussex hills, thick with woods, and the air was full of the scent of trees.As I gazed at the verdant landscape, I had the feeling that the idyllic setting in which the tragedy of Folkes Lars had taken place seemed all the more sinister and horrific by the serenity of it.The venerable lawyer evidently shared my sentiments, while Sherlock Holmes was left brooding to himself.He didn't participate in our conversation, but just made a few comments from time to time, saying that the station master had an unfortunate marriage and recently changed the location of the shaving mirror. We hired a carriage from the inn, and started the three-mile journey from the village to the manor.The road winds its way up the wooded slopes of Mount Pipinford, and occasionally we catch sight of a spooky, vegetated ridge, with the vast swath of remains looming on the horizon. . We go up to the top of the mountain.I was fascinated by the marvelous view of the moorland gradually extending towards the green Sussex Downs pastures in the distance.At this moment, Mr. Vincent touched my arm and pointed ahead. "Folkes Lars," he said. On the highest point of the moor there was a bleak, rambling house of gray stone, with a row of stables beside it.Around the corner of the old house lay fields, which gradually merged with yellow gorse and heath-grown heath, and stretched out in front of a deep wooded ravine.A column of smoke rose from the other side of the valley.The high-pitched hum of a steam saw also came from there. "That's the Relic Hill Sawmill," Mr. Vincent offered to me. "Those woods lie outside the boundaries of the property, and have no neighbors within three miles. But, Mr. Holmes, we have come here, and Fox The people of Lars Manor greeted us in sorrow." An elderly manservant heard our drive up the drive and appeared by the prominent Tudor gate.Seeing our companions, he hastened forward with a cry of relief. "Thank God you are here, sir," he cried. "Mrs. Longton..." "She's back?" put in Mr. Vincent. "Poor lady. I'll go and see her right away." "Officer Clare is here, sir, and, oh, someone from the Metropolitan Police." "Very well, Mostad." "Wait a moment," said Holmes, "has your master's body been removed?" "It's gone to the gun room, sir." "I trust that nothing else has been disturbed?" asked Holmes gravely. The servant's eyes turned slowly to the dark archway in the gate. "No, sir," he said vaguely. "It's all the same." Mostede let us put our hats and sticks in a little hall.Pass through the foyer to the inner hall.The inner hall is a vaulted stone room with a row of narrow windows with pointed corners decorated with stained glass on the wall.The fading afterglow of the setting sun shines through the glass, casting green, red, sky blue and other mottled shadows on the oak floor.As we entered, a short, thin man who was writing at a desk took one look at us.He jumped up, anger showing on his chiseled face. "What is the matter, Mr. Holmes?" he cried. "There is no room for your genius here." "You may be right, Lestrade," replied my friend casually; "however, there have been cases..." "...Luck favors the theorist, doesn't it, Mr. Holmes? Ah! Dr. Watson. Besides, I'd like to ask who this is, if you understand the question I, a police officer, are asking." "This is Mr. Vincent, counsel to the Addelstons," I replied. "It is he who has asked Mr. Sherlock Holmes for help." "Oh, he did, didn't he?" he snapped, giving the little lawyer a wicked look. "Unfortunately, whatever clever theories Mr. Holmes may have, it is too late. We have already caught the criminal. Good-bye, gentlemen." "Wait a minute, Lestrade," said Holmes sternly. "You have erred in the past, and you may err in the future. In this case, if you have caught the criminal, and I must admit, by now I believe you did catch the criminal, and I'll confirm that you have nothing to lose. On the other hand..." "Ah, always 'on the other hand.' But..." said Lestrade reluctantly, "I don't think you can do me any harm. If you want to waste your own time, Mr. Holmes, that is your business. Yes, Mr. Watson, it's a very odd evening, isn't it?" I followed Mr. Holmes to the fireplace which stood at the other end of the room, and the sight which greeted me made me cringe.There was a large puddle of partially congealed blood on the oak floor, and the inside and outside of the fireplace, and even the nearby wall panels, were splattered with crimson mottled blood, which was terrible. Mr. Vincent's lips turned pale with fright.He turned away and slumped in a chair. "Stand back, Watson." Holmes ordered me bluntly. "No footprints, I suppose..." He gestured toward the horrible part of the floor. "Only one, Mr. Holmes," replied Lestrade, with a wry smile. "This footprint matches Mr. Percy Langton's bedroom slippers." "Ah, it seems that you understand the situation. By the way, what is the defendant's dressing gown like?" "Well, what's the matter?" "Walls! Lestrade, those walls! Langton's blood-spattered gown-fronts must help in finalizing the case." "That's what you mentioned. The sleeve is soaked in blood." "Tsk, it's only natural that the sleeves are soaked in blood, considering that he helped to lift the dead man's head. There's no clue there. Do you have the dressing gown?" The Scotland Yard policeman rummaged in a double-pocketed duffel bag and produced a gray woolen robe. "This is." "Hmph. There are bloodstains on the sleeves and the hem of the clothes, and there is not even a trace of blood on the front. Strange, alas... this is not convincing. Is this a murder weapon?" Lestrade drew from his bag something very frightening.It was a short-handled all-steel ax with a thin waist and a broad half-moon blade. "It must be of very old fashion," said Holmes, examining it with a magnifying glass. "By the way, where is the wound?" "The top of this Squire Adderton's skull has been chopped up like a rotten apple," replied Lestrade. "To be honest, it's a miracle that he regained a moment of consciousness. To Mr. Longton It's an unfortunate miracle." "I heard that the deceased mentioned his name, did you?" "Well, he uttered 'Langton' out of breath, which is all a dying man can do." "Yes. But who's coming? Oh, no, madam, you can't go any further, not even a step, I beseech you. This fireplace is now closed to women." A slender and elegant girl in heavy filial piety rushed into the room.Her dark eyes blazed wildly on her pale face, and her hands were clasped before her in agony. "Help him!" she cried, overpoweringly. "I swear he is innocent! Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, save my husband!" I think we were all deeply moved by her at the time, even Lestrade. "I will do my best, madam," said Holmes kindly. "Now, please tell me something about your husband." "He's a very, very nice guy." "Yes, yes. But I'm talking about physical matters. For instance, do you think he's taller than Squire Addleton?" Mrs. Longton looked at Holmes in amazement. "My God, no," she cried. "Why, the squire is more than six feet tall." "Ah. Mr. Vincent, perhaps now you can tell me when Squire Adderton began to sell his property?" "The first time was two years ago, and the second time was about six months ago," replied the lawyer hastily. "Mr. Holmes, if there is nothing to do now, I should like to see Mrs. Langton back to the drawing room." My friend bowed and replied: "We need not bother Mrs. Longton any more. But I would like to speak to the steward." While we waited, Holmes walked up to the window, and, with his hands behind his back and his chin resting on his chest, looked out at the deserted yard.Lestrade returned to the table, bit the pen holder, and looked at him curiously. "Ah, Mostads," said Holmes, as the butler entered the room, "you are, no doubt, anxious to do all you can to help Mr. Langton. I hope you understand that we have come for the same purpose. " The butler looked nervously at Lestrade, then at Holmes. "Well," continued my friend, "I'm sure you will be able to help us. For example, you may recall whether the squire received the letter when it was delivered yesterday?" "Yes, sir, there is a letter." "Ah! Can you tell me more about the situation?" "I'm afraid there's not much to tell, sir. The letter had a local postmark and seemed to be a very common cheap envelope, the kind people use around here. I'm surprised..." He hesitated for a moment. . "The circumstance which astonishes you, perhaps, concerns the attitude of the squire?" asked Holmes calmly. "Yes, sir, that's exactly it. As soon as I handed him the letter, he opened it, and as he looked at it, something came into his face which made me get out of there as quickly as I could. When I came in afterwards, The squire is out, and there are still bits of burnt paper smoking in the grate." Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands and said: "Your help is invaluable. Now, please think carefully. Six months ago, your master sold some land, and you may know about it. Naturally, you Can't recall a similar letter at that time?" "No letter, sir." "Of course not. Thank you, Mosted. That's all I think." Something in his voice made me glance at him.His transformation surprised me.His eyes sparkled with excitement, and a blush appeared on his face. "Sit down, Watson," he cried. "Sit down on that stool over there." Then he drew his magnifying glass from his pocket, and began to examine it. I stared at him intently.Holmes crawled around on all fours.His slender nose was inches from the parquet floor, and the magnifying glass in his hand reflected the afterglow of the setting sun.The bloodstains, the fireplace, the mantel, and the floor itself were carefully and methodically examined. In the middle of the room was a Persian rug.I saw him stop suddenly as he crawled to the edge of the rug. "You should have found this, Lestrade," he whispered. "There are some obscure tracks here." "That's no big deal, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade grinned and winked at me at the same time. "A lot of people walked across that carpet." "However, it has not rained for many days. The boots that left this mark are a little damp. There must be something in this room to explain it. I don't need to tell you that. Oh! What is this?" Sherlock Holmes scraped something from the carpet and examined it carefully with a magnifying glass.Lestrade and I went up to him. "Cough, what is it?" Sherlock Holmes was silent.He handed the magnifying glass to Lestrade and held out his hand at the same time. Lestrade looked at it with a magnifying glass and commented, "It's dust." "It is pine sawdust," replied Holmes calmly. "It is so fine that it cannot be mistaken. You may have noticed that I scraped it off the prints of my shoes." I said aloud: "To be honest, Holmes, I don't understand..." My friend looked at me slyly and said: "Come, Watson. Let us now go to the stables." In the cobbled yard we met a groom who was drawing water from the pump.I have mentioned before that Holmes had a genius for disarming the working people.After a few words of conversation, the Sussex cautiousness of the man was almost entirely removed, and when Holmes hinted that it would be difficult to point out the horse his master had used the night before, He told the situation right away. "He's riding the Wanderer, sir," said the groom proactively. "Isn't this still in the stables? Would you like to see the horse's hooves? Oh, why not? Look. You can use the knife as you please Come on, there's not a single stone between the hooves." Sherlock Holmes took a small lump of mud from the horse's hoof, examined it carefully, and placed it carefully in an envelope.He thrust a half-pound piece into the groom's hand, and left the yard. "Well, Watson, we can go back to the hotel after we get our hat and cane," he said in a relaxed tone.When he saw the Scotland Yard sergeant at the front door, he added: "Ah, Lestrade, I want to draw your attention to the chairs in front of the fire." "But there are no chairs in front of the fire." "That's why I called your attention. Well, Watson, nothing more will happen here to-night." The evening passed rather pleasantly, though I was a little angry with Holmes.I was angry because he refused to answer any of my questions on the grounds that "tomorrow's answer is better than today's answer", but he talked to our landlord about local affairs, and outsiders like us have no idea about those things. interested. When I awoke next morning, I was astonished to find that Holmes had breakfasted and gone out two hours before.He walked in just as I was finishing my breakfast.He looked energized from being outside and exercising. "Where have you been?" I asked. "Learn from the early bird, Watson." He pursed his lips and smiled. "If you have finished eating, then we will take the car to Fox Russ to fetch Lestrade. Sometimes he has certain usefulness." Half an hour later, we arrived at the old mansion again.Lestrade greeted us rather roughly, looking at my companion with surprise. "But why go to the moor, Mr. Holmes?" he said angrily. "What are you thinking about this time?" Sherlock Holmes turned sternly, and said, "Very well, I would have given you the sole honor of having caught the murderer of Squire Adelton." Lestrade grabbed Holmes' arm and asked, "Aren't you joking, man? But, I want evidence! All the facts point to..." Sherlock Holmes raised his stick and pointed silently down the long slopes, covered with crops and heather, and down to the distant valley covered with bushes. He said calmly, "Go there." This trip is something I will never forget.I am sure that Lestrade had no more idea of ​​what lay ahead than I did.We simply followed the slender figure of Holmes across the prairie, up a rough track trodden by the sheep, towards the desolate moor.After walking a mile or more we came to the valley, and then into the lovely pine woods.The whirring of the steam saw echoed through the pine woods like the buzzing of some gigantic insect.There was a strong smell of burning wood in the air, fragrant.In a few minutes we were between the houses and the lumber piles of the sawmill on Remains Knoll. Without hesitation, Sherlock Holmes led the way to a small cottage with the sign of "Manager's Office" and knocked heavily on the door.After a short wait, the door slammed open. I have seldom seen a man more terrible than the man who stood on the threshold.He was as tall as a giant, with broad shoulders that blocked the doorway, and a matted, matted red beard that fell to his chest like a lion's mane. "What are you doing here?" he growled. "I suppose I have the honor of speaking with Mr. Thomas Greerley, don't I?" asked Holmes politely. The man does not speak.He bit off a piece of chewing tobacco and looked at us slowly, one by one, with indifferent eyes. At last he said, "So what?" "Your friends call you 'Big Tom,' don't you?" said Holmes calmly. "Well, Mr. Thomas Greerley, it is because of you that an innocent man has committed a crime for you." be punished for the crimes committed.” For a brief moment the giant stood still as a stone; then, with a growl like a wild beast, he sprang at Holmes.I hugged his waist with all my strength and pulled him back.Holmes's hands were thrust deep into his upright tangled beard.If Lestrade hadn't hastily put the pistol to his head, we'd be in trouble.When the cold muzzle touched his temple, he stopped struggling.In the blink of an eye Holmes had placed a pair of handcuffs on his large, knotty wrists. Judging by the fire in his eyes, I thought Greerley was going to attack us again.But suddenly, with a wry smile, he turned his bearded face to Holmes. "I don't know who you are, sir," he said, "but you've had a good catch. If you'll tell me how you found out the facts, I'll answer all your questions." Lestrade took a step forward, and said with the magnanimous equality of an English judge: "I must warn you..." Our prisoner, however, ignored his words. He growled, "Yes, I killed him. I killed Bully Adelton. I think I can hang in peace now. That said, is that clear enough? Ah, come in the house." " He led the way into the small office and sat down on a chair.We all try to find as comfortable a place to sit as we can. He raised his handcuffed hands, bit off another piece of chewing tobacco, and asked casually, "How did you find me, sir?" Sherlock Holmes replied with the utmost severity: "I recognize some traces of your presence, which is very fortunate for an innocent man. I admit that when I was first called on to investigate the matter, I believed Mr. Langton to be guilty; and when I arrived on the scene, I did not see reason to change my opinion. After a while, however, I found that I was confronted with certain details which in themselves had no great significance, but It is strange, a new discovery, which helps to understand the whole case. The blow which killed the squire of Adelton spattered the fireplace with blood, and even part of the wall was stained with blood, so why the blow There is no blood on the front of the dressing gown that people wear? This is not convincing, and there must be a mystery in it. "Secondly, I saw that there were no chairs near the fireplace, where the victim had fallen. He was therefore struck standing, not sitting. Since the blow split the top of the skull, it At least by a man of the same height ... if not taller .... When I learned from Mrs. Longton that Squire Addleton was over six feet tall, I had no doubts that we made a An extremely wrong judgment. But if it wasn't Langton, then who was the real murderer? "I have learned from my inquiries that the squire received a letter that morning; apparently he burned it; and then got into a quarrel with his nephew over an offer to sell a farm. Squire Adelton is a rich man, so, Why has the property been sold every once in a while since two years ago? This person must have been extorted." "For God's sake, it's a lie!" Greerley interjected fiercely. "It's for him to give back what wasn't his, and that's what it is." "In examining that room," continued my friend, "I found inconspicuous footprints. Didn't I remind you, Lestrade? Because the weather was dry, I knew that the footprints were of course after the crime." Yes. The man's boots were wet, because he had stepped on blood. With a magnifying glass, it was seen that some fine particles were stuck to the footprints, and on closer inspection, it was recognized that the fine particles were pine sawdust. Next, from the squire. Similar sawdust was found in the dried mud on the hooves of a horse, so that I was able to trace the circumstances of the crime that night quite clearly. "The squire proposed to sell some very valuable land, and his nephew strongly objected, so immediately after supper he rode away in the dark. Evidently he wanted to say something to someone, or to suggest something. What request. Around midnight, the man came. He was tall and terribly strong...can split a skull in one blow. Pine sawdust stuck to the soles of his shoes. Two people quarreling...probably a refusal Pay, another threatened. In the blink of an eye, the taller man yanked an ax from the wall, smashed it hard into the other's skull, and rushed out the door, disappearing into the night. "I wondered, where can I find that kind of soil mixed with a lot of sawdust? Of course, it must go to the sawmill, and the sawmill on Remains Hill is in the valley below the estate. "It had already occurred to me that the clues to this dreadful case might lie in the early life of the squire, and so, as was customary, I had a very enlightening evening with the landlord. A question led to this situation: Two years ago, Squire Adderton personally introduced an Australian to be manager of the Relic Hill Sawmill. Greerley, when you were out of the house this morning, I Just behind the lumber pile. I saw you, case closed. The Australian who had been listening intently to Holmes' narration leaned back in his chair with a wry smile. "It's my bad luck that they invite you, sir," he said brazenly, "but I'm not the type to go back on my word, so I'll tell you something you need to know. "There was a gold rush around Kalgoorrie in the early seventies and that's when it started. I had a younger brother who was in partnership with an Englishman; we knew the Englishman by the nickname Bully Adelton .They found a really rich lode. Back then the roads to the mines weren't very safe because there were bandits in the jungle. Well, just a week after my brother and Adelton found the lode, The mine in Kalgoorli was robbed, and the mine guard and driver were killed. "Adelton made false charges, fabricated evidence, and my unfortunate brother was arrested and tried. At that time, the enforcement of the law was very fast. They hanged him that night. tree. Adelton took possession of the mine. "I was logging in the Blue Mountains at the time. It was two years later when I heard the whole truth from a gold prospector who had been told by a dying cook who had been bribed to conceal the truth. "Adelton made a fortune and came back to England. I wanted to follow him, but I had no money. Since then, I've been wandering around, working odd jobs, saving money and trying to find my brother's murderer. Yes, murderer, may the devil roast him. "It took almost two decades before I came to him. At that moment, my long wait was paid off. "I said: 'Good morning, bully.' "All of a sudden his face turned ashes, and the pipe he was smoking dropped to the floor. "He gasped and said, 'Big Thom Greerley!' I thought the guy was going to pass out right away. "Well, we talked once, and I forced him to get me this job. After that, I let him bleed bit by bit. Not extortion, sir, but repossession of a dead man's property. Two days ago, I wrote him again; and that night he rode up here, and yelled that I was driving him to ruin. I told him that at midnight he could either pay or tell, and I Go to him and hear his answer. "When I got to his house, he was waiting in the living room. He was angry and drunk again, and he was going crazy. He was cursing and saying that he didn't care whether I went to the police or to the devil; asked if I Really thought people would not listen to him as a manor and sheriff, and believe the nonsense of a dirty lumberjack like me. He regretted giving me any money, even a small one, and he regretted it madly. "He yelled, 'I'll treat you as mercilessly as your vile brother.' That did the trick. There was a buzzing in my head. Pulling down the weapon closest to me, I slammed it on his growling head with bared teeth. "I stood there looking down at him for a moment. I whispered, 'I give it to you, Jim and I'. Then I turned and ran into the night. That's my story, sir. I would be very grateful if we could leave before my men return." When Lestrade led his prisoner to the door, Holmes called them back. He said: "I just wanted to know, do you know what weapon you used to kill Squire Adelton?" "As I said, it was the closest thing to me hanging on the wall, probably an ancient ax or club or something." "It's an executioner's ax," said Sherlock Holmes icily. The Australian made no answer, but as he followed Lestrade out I seemed to see a strange smile flash across his rough, bearded face. My friend and I walked back slowly.We walked up the moor through the forest, and Lestrade and the prisoner were out of sight in the direction of Fox Lars.Holmes was sad and thoughtful.It was obvious to me that the usual reaction after a case was over had manifested in him. I said, "It's strange how one man's hatred and cruelty have not abated after twenty years." "My dear Watson," replied Holmes, "I remind you of the Sicilian proverb that revenge is the best dish to be eaten cold." He put his hands on the shade and looked into the distance, and then said: "Then The woman hurrying our way must be Lady Langton. I am not in the mood for chivalry, but I am not in the mood to listen to a woman's words of gratitude at the moment. If you agree, let's go this gorse The trail behind Congsheng. If we go out from here, we can still catch the car into the city in the afternoon. "Korata is at Covent Park to-night. I see you and I are in high spirits after a short holiday in the inspiring atmosphere of the Forest of Relics. When we get home, Watson, we will be in 'Manon. Nothing could be more pleasant than to pass an hour or two in the charms of Lesgow's, and to have a cold meal at our house in Baker Street, don't you agree?"