elapt1c/ElapticAI-512 · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 149M
examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and
several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the
bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the
clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His
boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were there. There were no
signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other
traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently
have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous
bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save
himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment
of the tragedy.

“And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in
the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents,
but as, by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he was known to have been at the
foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband’s appearance
at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the
crime. His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that
he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and
that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing
gentleman’s clothes.

“So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives
upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last
human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh
Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who
goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to
avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax
vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the
left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in
the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,
cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a
piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy
leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the
fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional
acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has
reaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that
no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a
pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has
turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair
of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the
colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of
mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply
to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by.
This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium
den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are
in quest.

“But a cripple! said I. “What could he have done single-handed against
a man in the prime of life?

“He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other
respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your
medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is
often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.

“Pray continue your narrative.

“Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window,
and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could
be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who
had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the
premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the
matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as
he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated
with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he
was seized and searched, without anything being found which could
incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his
right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been
cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there,
adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the
stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same
source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair
and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a
mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair’s assertion that
she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she
must have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly
protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained upon
the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh
clue.

“And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had
feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St.
Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think
they found in the pockets?

“I cannot imagine.

“No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies
and half-pennies—421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder
that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a
different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the
house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when
the stripped body had been sucked away into the river.

“But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room.
Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?

“No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that
this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there

examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and

several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the

bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the

clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His

boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch—all were there. There were no

signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other

traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently

have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous

bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save

himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment

of the tragedy.

“And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in

the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents,

but as, by Mrs. St. Clair’s story, he was known to have been at the

foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband’s appearance

at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the

crime. His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that

he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and

that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing

gentleman’s clothes.

“So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives

upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last

human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh

Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who

goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to

avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax

vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the

left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in

the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat,

cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a

piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy

leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the

fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional

acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has

reaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that

no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a

pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has

turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair

of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the

colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of

mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply

to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by.

This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium

den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are

in quest.

“But a cripple! said I. “What could he have done single-handed against

a man in the prime of life?

“He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other

respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your

medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is

often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others.

“Pray continue your narrative.

“Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window,

and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could

be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who

had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the

premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the

matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as

he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated

with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he

was seized and searched, without anything being found which could

incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his

right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been

cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there,

adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the

stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same

source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair

and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a

mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair’s assertion that

she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she

must have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly

protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained upon

the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh

clue.

“And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had

feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair’s coat, and not Neville St.

Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think

they found in the pockets?

“I cannot imagine.

“No, I don’t think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies

and half-pennies—421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder

that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a

different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the

house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when

the stripped body had been sucked away into the river.

“But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room.

Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?

“No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that

this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there