elapt1c/ElapticAI-512 · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 149M
coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He
was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which
covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad
wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its
contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three
teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red
hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

“He’s a beauty, isn’t he? said the inspector.

“He certainly needs a wash, remarked Holmes. “I had an idea that he
might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me. He opened
the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very
large bath-sponge.

“He! he! You are a funny one, chuckled the inspector.

“Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very
quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.

“Well, I don’t know why not, said the inspector. “He doesn’t look a
credit to the Bow Street cells, does he? He slipped his key into the
lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half
turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes
stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it
twice vigorously across and down the prisoner’s face.

“Let me introduce you, he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee,
in the county of Kent.

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeled off
under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown
tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and
the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A
twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his
bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and
smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy
bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a
scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

“Great heavens! cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man.
I know him from the photograph.

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself
to his destiny. “Be it so, said he. “And pray what am I charged with?

“With making away with Mr. Neville St.— Oh, come, you can’t be charged
with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it, said the
inspector with a grin. “Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the
force, but this really takes the cake.

“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has
been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.

“No crime, but a very great error has been committed, said Holmes.
“You would have done better to have trusted your wife.

“It was not the wife; it was the children, groaned the prisoner. “God
help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an
exposure! What can I do?

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly
on the shoulder.

“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up, said he,
“of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you
convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against
you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should
find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure,
make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the
proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all.

“God bless you! cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have endured
imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable
secret as a family blot to my children.

“You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a
schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education.
I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a
reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to
have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I
volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my
adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I
could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I
had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been
famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my
attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as
possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by
the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head
of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business
part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar.
For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the
evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26s.
4d.

“I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some
time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me
for £ 25. I was at my wit’s end where to get the money, but a sudden
idea came to me. I begged a fortnight’s grace from the creditor, asked
for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the

coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He

was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which

covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad

wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its

contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three

teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red

hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

“He’s a beauty, isn’t he? said the inspector.

“He certainly needs a wash, remarked Holmes. “I had an idea that he

might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me. He opened

the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very

large bath-sponge.

“He! he! You are a funny one, chuckled the inspector.

“Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very

quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure.

“Well, I don’t know why not, said the inspector. “He doesn’t look a

credit to the Bow Street cells, does he? He slipped his key into the

lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half

turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes

stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it

twice vigorously across and down the prisoner’s face.

“Let me introduce you, he shouted, “to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee,

in the county of Kent.

Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man’s face peeled off

under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown

tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and

the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A

twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his

bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and

smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy

bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a

scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

“Great heavens! cried the inspector, “it is, indeed, the missing man.

I know him from the photograph.

The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself

to his destiny. “Be it so, said he. “And pray what am I charged with?

“With making away with Mr. Neville St.— Oh, come, you can’t be charged

with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it, said the

inspector with a grin. “Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the

force, but this really takes the cake.

“If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has

been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained.

“No crime, but a very great error has been committed, said Holmes.

“You would have done better to have trusted your wife.

“It was not the wife; it was the children, groaned the prisoner. “God

help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an

exposure! What can I do?

Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly

on the shoulder.

“If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up, said he,

“of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you

convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against

you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should

find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure,

make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the

proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all.

“God bless you! cried the prisoner passionately. “I would have endured

imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable

secret as a family blot to my children.

“You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a

schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education.

I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a

reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to

have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I

volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my

adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I

could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I

had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been

famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my

attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as

possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by

the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head

of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business

part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar.

For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the

evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26s.

4d.

“I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some

time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me

for £ 25. I was at my wit’s end where to get the money, but a sudden

idea came to me. I begged a fortnight’s grace from the creditor, asked

for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the