“It was a pitch-dark night when my husband and I went down,as was our custom, to feed the beast. We carried with us the rawmeat in a zinc pail. Leonardo was waiting at the corner of the bigvan which we should have to pass before we reached the cage. Hewas too slow, and we walked past him before he could strike, buthe followed us on tiptoe and I heard the crash as the club smashedmy husband’s skull. My heart leaped with joy at the sound. Isprang forward, and I undid the catch which held the door of thegreat lion’s cage.
“And then the terrible thing happened. You may have heardhow quick these creatures are to scent human blood, and howit excites them. Some strange instinct had told the creature inone instant that a human being had been slain. As I slipped thebars it bounded out and was on me in an instant. Leonardo couldhave saved me. If he had rushed forward and struck the beastwith his club he might have cowed it. But the man lost his nerve.
I heard him shout in his terror, and then I saw him turn and fly.
At the same instant the teeth of the lion met in my face. Its hot,filthy breath had already poisoned me and I was hardly consciousof pain. With the palms of my hands I tried to push the greatsteaming, blood-stained jaws away from me, and I screamed forhelp. I was conscious that the camp was stirring, and then dimlyI remembered a group of men. Leonardo, Griggs, and others,dragging me from under the creature’s paws. That was my lastmemory, Mr. Holmes, for many a weary month. When I cameto myself and saw myself in the mirror, I cursed that lion—oh,how I cursed him! —not because he had torn away my beauty butbecause he had not torn away my life. I had but one desire, Mr.
Holmes, and I had enough money to gratify it. It was that I shouldcover myself so that my poor face should be seen by none, andthat I should dwell where none whom I had ever known shouldfind me. That was all that was left to me to do—and that is what Ihave done. A poor wounded beast that has crawled into its hole todie—that is the end of Eugenia Ronder.”
We sat in silence for some time after the unhappy woman hadtold her story. Then Holmes stretched out his long arm and pattedher hand with such a show of sympathy as I had seldom knownhim to exhibit.
“Poor girl!” he said. “Poor girl! The ways of fate are indeed hardto understand. If there is not some compensation hereafter, thenthe world is a cruel jest. But what of this man Leonardo?”
“I never saw him or heard from him again. Perhaps I have beenwrong to feel so bitterly against him. He might as soon have lovedone of the freaks whom we carried round the country as the thingwhich the lion had left. But a woman’s love is not so easily set1386 The Complete Sherlock Holmes aside. He had left me under the beast’s claws, he had deserted mein my need, and yet I could not bring myself to give him to thegallows. For myself, I cared nothing what became of me. Whatcould be more dreadful than my actual life? But I stood betweenLeonardo and his fate.”
“And he is dead?”
“He was drowned last month when bathing near Margate. I sawhis death in the paper.”
“And what did he do with this five-clawed club, which is themost singular and ingenious part of all your story?”
“I cannot tell, Mr. Holmes. There is a chalk-pit by the camp,with a deep green pool at the base of it. Perhaps in the depths ofthat pool——”
“Well, well, it is of little consequence now. The case is closed.”
“Yes,” said the woman, “the case is closed.”
We had risen to go, but there was something in the woman’svoice which arrested Holmes’s attention. He turned swiftly uponher.
“Your life is not your own,” he said. “Keep your hands off it.”
“What use is it to anyone?”
“How can you tell? The example of patient suffering is in itselfthe most precious of all lessons to an impatient world.”
The woman’s answer was a terrible one. She raised her veil andstepped forward into the light.
“I wonder if you would bear it,” she said.
It was horrible. No words can describe the framework of a facewhen the face itself is gone. Two living and beautiful brown eyeslooking sadly out from that grisly ruin did but make the view moreawful. Holmes held up his hand in a gesture of pity and protest,and together we left the room.
Two days later, when I called upon my friend, he pointed withsome pride to a small blue bottle upon his mantelpiece. I pickedup. There was a red poison label. A pleasant almondy odour rosewhen I opened it.
“Prussic acid?” said I.
“Exactly. It came by post. ‘I send you my temptation. I willfollow your advice.’ That was the message. I think, Watson, we canguess the name of the brave woman who sent it.”
The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place
Sherlock Holmes had been bending for a long time over a lowpowermicroscope. Now he straightened himself up and lookedround at me in triumph.
The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes 1387“It is glue, Watson,” said he. “Unquestionably it is glue. Have alook at these scattered objects in the field!”
I stooped to the eyepiece and focussed for my vision.
“Those hairs are threads from a tweed coat. The irregular graymasses are dust. There are epithelial scales on the left. Thosebrown blobs in the centre are undoubtedly glue.”
“Well,” I said, laughing, “I am prepared to take your word for it.
Does anything depend upon it?”
“It is a very fine demonstration,” he answered. “In the St. Pancrascase you may remember that a cap was found beside the deadpoliceman. The accused man denies that it is his. But he is apicture-frame maker who habitually handles glue.”
“Is it one of your cases?”
“No; my friend, Merivale, of the Yard, asked me to look into thecase. Since I ran down that coiner by the zinc and copper filings inthe seam of his cuff they have begun to realize the importance ofthe microscope.” He looked impatiently at his watch. “I had a newclient calling, but he is overdue. By the way, Watson, you knowsomething of racing?”
“I ought to. I pay for it with about half my wound pension.”
“Then I’ll make you my ‘Handy Guide to the Turf.’ What aboutSir Robert Norberton? Does the name recall anything?”
