福尔摩斯-硬纸盒子 The Cardboard Box

The Cardboard Box

Arthur Conan Doyle

In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable mental qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have endeavoured, as far as possible, to select those which presented the minimum of sensationalism, while offering a fair field for his talents. It is, however, unfortunately impossible entirely to separate the sensational from the criminal, and a chronicler is left in the dilemma that he must either sacrifice details which are essential to his statement and so give a false impression of the problem, or he must use matter which chance, and not choice, has provided him with. With this short preface I shall turn to my notes of what proved to be a strange, though a peculiarly terrible, chain of events.

It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an oven, and the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of the house across the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to believe that these were the same walls which loomed so gloomily through the fogs of winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa, reading and re-reading a letter which he had received by the morning post. For myself, my term of service in India had trained me to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer at ninety was no hardship. But the morning paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen. Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the glades of the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He loved to lie in the very center of five millions of people, with his filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to every little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of nature found no place among his many gifts, and his only change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town to track down his brother of the country.

Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had tossed side the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I fell into a brown study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts:

“You are right, Watson,” said he. “It does seem a most preposterous way of settling a dispute.”

“Most preposterous!” I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how he had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair and stared at him in blank amazement.

“What is this, Holmes?” I cried. “This is beyond anything which I could have imagined.”

He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

“You remember,” said he, “that some little time ago when I read you the passage in one of Poe's sketches in which a close reasoner follows the unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were inclined to treat the matter as a mere tour-de-force of the author. On my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing you expressed incredulity.”

“Oh, no!”

“Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that I had been in rapport with you.”

But I was still far from satisfied. “In the example which you read to me,” said I, “the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what clues can I have given you?”

“You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as the means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful servants.”

“Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my features?”

“Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot yourself recall how your reverie commenced?”

“No, I cannot.”

“Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was the action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not lead very far. Your eyes flashed across to the unframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. Then you glanced up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover that bare space and correspond with Gordon's picture there.”

“You have followed me wonderfully!” I exclaimed.

“So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts went back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that you could not do this without thinking of the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I remember your expressing your passionate indignation at the way in which he was received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of that also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil War, and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your hands clenched I was positive that you were indeed thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder, you shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your own old wound and a smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of settling international questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this point I agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to find that all my deductions had been correct.”

“Absolutely!” said I. “And now that you have explained it, I confess that I am as amazed as before.”

“It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some incredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a little problem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than my small essay in thought reading. Have you observed in the paper a short paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packet sent through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?”

“No, I saw nothing.”

“Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me. Here it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good enough to read it aloud.”

I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the paragraph indicated. It was headed, “A Gruesome Packet.”

“Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been made the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revolting practical joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be attached to the incident. At two o'clock yesterday afternoon a small packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by the postman. A cardboard box was inside, which was filled with coarse salt. On emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find two human ears, apparently quite freshly severed. The box had been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the morning before. There is no indication as to the sender, and the matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of fifty, has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances or correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive anything through the post. Some years ago, however, when she resided at Penge, she let apartments in her house to three young medical students, whom she was obliged to get rid of on account of their noisy and irregular habits. The police are of opinion that this outrage may have been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by these youths, who owed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her by sending her these relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some probability is lent to the theory by the fact that one of these students came from the north of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss Cushing's belief, from Belfast. In the meantime, the matter is being actively investigated, Mr. Lestrade, one of the very smartest of our detective officers, being in charge of the case.”

“So much for the Daily Chronicle,” said Holmes as I finished reading. “Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this morning, in which he says:

“I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every hope of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in getting anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to the Belfast post-office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon that day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one, or of remembering the sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew tobacco and does not help us in any way. The medical student theory still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a few hours to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I shall be either at the house or in the police-station all day.

“What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?”

“I was longing for something to do.”

“You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to order a cab. I'll be back in a moment when I have changed my dressing-gown and filled my cigar-case.”

A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat was far less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent on a wire, so that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret-like as ever, was waiting for us at the station. A walk of five minutes took us to Cross Street, where Miss Cushing resided.

It was a very long street of two-story brick houses, neat and prim, with whitened stone steps and little groups of aproned women gossiping at the doors. Halfway down, Lestrade stopped and tapped at a door, which was opened by a small servant girl. Miss Cushing was sitting in the front room, into which we were ushered. She was a placid-faced woman, with large, gentle eyes, and grizzled hair curving down over her temples on each side. A worked antimacassar lay upon her lap and a basket of coloured silks stood upon a stool beside her.

“They are in the outhouse, those dreadful things,” said she as Lestrade entered. “I wish that you would take them away altogether.”

“So I shall, Miss Cushing. I only kept them here until my friend, Mr. Holmes, should have seen them in your presence.”

“Why in my presence, sir?”

“In case he wished to ask any questions.”

“What is the use of asking me questions when I tell you I know nothing whatever about it?”

“Quite so, madam,” said Holmes in his soothing way. “I have no doubt that you have been annoyed more than enough already over this business.”

“Indeed I have, sir. I am a quiet woman and live a retired life. It is something new for me to see my name in the papers and to find the police in my house. I won't have those things in here, Mr. Lestrade. If you wish to see them you must go to the outhouse.”

It was a small shed in the narrow garden which ran behind the house. Lestrade went in and brought out a yellow cardboard box, with a piece of brown paper and some string. There was a bench at the end of the path, and we all sat down while Homes examined one by one, the articles which Lestrade had handed to him.

“The string is exceedingly interesting,” he remarked, holding it up to the light and sniffing at it. “What do you make of this string, Lestrade?”

“It has been tarred.”

“Precisely. It is a piece of tarred twine. You have also, no doubt, remarked that Miss Cushing has cut the cord with a scissors, as can be seen by the double fray on each side. This is of importance.”

“I cannot see the importance,” said Lestrade.

“The importance lies in the fact that the knot is left intact, and that this knot is of a peculiar character.”

“It is very neatly tied. I had already made a note of that effect,” said Lestrade complacently.

“So much for the string, then,” said Holmes, smiling, “now for the box wrapper. Brown paper, with a distinct smell of coffee. What, did you not observe it? I think there can be no doubt of it. Address printed in rather straggling characters: ‘Miss S. Cushing, Cross Street, Croydon.’ Done with a broad-pointed pen, probably a J, and with very inferior ink. The word ‘Croydon’ has been originally spelled with an ‘i’, which has been changed to ‘y’. The parcel was directed, then, by a man—the printing is distinctly masculine—of limited education and unacquainted with the town of Croydon. So far, so good! The box is a yellow, half-pound honeydew box, with nothing distinctive save two thumb marks at the left bottom corner. It is filled with rough salt of the quality used for preserving hides and other of the coarser commercial purposes. And embedded in it are these very singular enclosures.”

He took out the two ears as he spoke, and laying a board across his knee he examined them minutely, while Lestrade and I, bending forward on each side of him, glanced alternately at these dreadful relics and at the thoughtful, eager face of our companion. Finally he returned them to the box once more and sat for a while in deep meditation.

“You have observed, of course,” said he at last, “that the ears are not a pair.”

“Yes, I have noticed that. But if this were the practical joke of some students from the dissecting-rooms, it would be as easy for them to send two odd ears as a pair.”

“Precisely. But this is not a practical joke.”

“You are sure of it?”

“The presumption is strongly against it. Bodies in the dissecting-rooms are injected with preservative fluid. These ears bear no signs of this. They are fresh, too. They have been cut off with a blunt instrument, which would hardly happen if a student had done it. Again, carbolic or rectified spirits would be the preservatives which would suggest themselves to the medical mind, certainly not rough salt. I repeat that there is no practical joke here, but that we are investigating a serious crime.”

A vague thrill ran through me as I listened to my companion's words and saw the stern gravity which had hardened his features. This brutal preliminary seemed to shadow forth some strange and inexplicable horror in the background. Lestrade, however, shook his head like a man who is only half convinced.

“There are objections to the joke theory, no doubt,” said he, “but there are much stronger reasons against the other. We know that this woman has led a most quiet and respectable life at Penge and here for the last twenty years. She has hardly been away from her home for a day during that time. Why on earth, then, should any criminal send her the proofs of his guilt, especially as, unless she is a most consummate actress, she understands quite as little of the matter as we do?”

“That is the problem which we have to solve,” Holmes answered, “and for my part I shall set about it by presuming that my reasoning is correct, and that a double murder has been committed. One of these ears is a woman's, small, finely formed, and pierced for an earring. The other is a man's, sun-burned, discoloured, and also pierced for an earring. These two people are presumably dead, or we should have heard their story before now. To-day is Friday. The packet was posted on Thursday morning. The tragedy, then, occurred on Wednesday or Tuesday, or earlier. If the two people were murdered, who but their murderer would have sent this sign of his work to Miss Cushing? We may take it that the sender of the packet is the man whom we want. But he must have some strong reason for sending Miss Cushing this packet. What reason then? It must have been to tell her that the deed was done; or to pain her, perhaps. But in that case she knows who it is. Does she know? I doubt it. If she knew, why should she call the police in? She might have buried the ears, and no one would have been the wiser. That is what she would have done if she had wished to shield the criminal. But if she does not wish to shield him she would give his name. There is a tangle here which needs straightening out.” He had been talking in a high, quick voice, staring blankly up over the garden fence, but now he sprang briskly to his feet and walked towards the house.

“I have a few questions to ask Miss Cushing,” said he.

“In that case I may leave you here,” said Lestrade, “for I have another small business on hand. I think that I have nothing further to learn from Miss Cushing. You will find me at the police-station.”

“We shall look in on our way to the train,” answered Holmes. A moment later he and I were back in the front room, where the impassive lady was still quietly working away at her antimacassar. She put it down on her lap as we entered and looked at us with her frank, searching blue eyes.

“I am convinced, sir,” she said, “that this matter is a mistake, and that the parcel was never meant for me at all. I have said this several times to the gentlemen from Scotland Yard, but he simply laughs at me. I have not an enemy in the world, as far as I know, so why should anyone play me such a trick?”

“I am coming to be of the same opinion, Miss Cushing,” said Holmes, taking a seat beside her. “I think that it is more than probable—” He paused, and I was surprised, on glancing round to see that he was staring with singular intentness at the lady's profile. Surprise and satisfaction were both for an instant to be read upon his eager face, though when she glanced round to find out the cause of his silence he had become as demure as ever. I stared hard myself at her flat, grizzled hair, her trim cap, her little gilt earrings, her placid features; but I could see nothing which could account for my companion's evident excitement.

“There were one or two questions—”

“Oh, I am weary of questions!” cried Miss Cushing impatiently.

“You have two sisters, I believe.”

“How could you know that?”

“I observed the very instant that I entered the room that you have a portrait group of three ladies upon the mantelpiece, one of whom is undoubtedly yourself, while the others are so exceedingly like you that there could be no doubt of the relationship.”

“Yes, you are quite right. Those are my sisters, Sarah and Mary.”

“And here at my elbow is another portrait, taken at Liverpool, of your younger sister, in the company of a man who appears to be a steward by his uniform. I observe that she was unmarried at the time.”

“You are very quick at observing.”

“That is my trade.”

“Well, you are quite right. But she was married to Mr. Browner a few days afterwards. He was on the South American line when that was taken, but he was so fond of her that he couldn't abide to leave her for so long, and he got into the Liverpool and London boats.”

“Ah, the Conqueror, perhaps?”

“No, the May Day, when last I heard. Jim came down here to see me once. That was before he broke the pledge; but afterwards he would always take drink when he was ashore, and a little drink would send him stark, staring mad. Ah! it was a bad day that ever he took a glass in his hand again. First he dropped me, then he quarrelled with Sarah, and now that Mary has stopped writing we don't know how things are going with them.”

It was evident that Miss Cushing had come upon a subject on which she felt very deeply. Like most people who lead a lonely life, she was shy at first, but ended by becoming extremely communicative. She told us many details about her brother-in-law the steward, and then wandering off on the subject of her former lodgers, the medical students, she gave us a long account of their delinquencies, with their names and those of their hospitals. Holmes listened attentively to everything, throwing in a question from time to time.

“About your second sister, Sarah,” said he. “I wonder, since you are both maiden ladies, that you do not keep house together.”

“Ah! you don't know Sarah's temper or you would wonder no more. I tried it when I came to Croydon, and we kept on until about two months ago, when we had to part. I don't want to say a word against my own sister, but she was always meddlesome and hard to please, was Sarah.”

“You say that she quarrelled with your Liverpool relations.”

“Yes, and they were the best of friends at one time. Why, she went up there to live in order to be near them. And now she has no word hard enough for Jim Browner. The last six months that she was here she would speak of nothing but his drinking and his ways. He had caught her meddling, I suspect, and given her a bit of his mind, and that was the start of it.”

“Thank you, Miss Cushing,” said Holmes, rising and bowing. “Your sister Sarah lives, I think you said, at New Street, Wallington? Good-bye, and I am very sorry that you should have been troubled over a case with which, as you say, you have nothing whatever to do.”

There was a cab passing as we came out, and Holmes hailed it.

“How far to Wallington?” he asked.

“Only about a mile, sir.”

“Very good. Jump in, Watson. We must strike while the iron is hot. Simple as the case is, there have been one or two very instructive details in connection with it. Just pull up at a telegraph office as you pass, cabby.”

Holmes sent off a short wire and for the rest of the drive lay back in the cab, with his hat tilted over his nose to keep the sun from his face. Our drive pulled up at a house which was not unlike the one which we had just quitted. My companion ordered him to wait, and had his hand upon the knocker, when the door opened and a grave young gentleman in black, with a very shiny hat, appeared on the step.

“Is Miss Cushing at home?” asked Holmes.

“Miss Sarah Cushing is extremely ill,” said he. “She has been suffering since yesterday from brain symptoms of great severity. As her medical adviser, I cannot possibly take the responsibility of allowing anyone to see her. I should recommend you to call again in ten days.” He drew on his gloves, closed the door, and marched off down the street.

“Well, if we can't we can't,” said Holmes, cheerfully.

“Perhaps she could not or would not have told you much.”

“I did not wish her to tell me anything. I only wanted to look at her. However, I think that I have got all that I want. Drive us to some decent hotel, cabby, where we may have some lunch, and afterwards we shall drop down upon friend Lestrade at the police-station.”

We had a pleasant little meal together, during which Holmes would talk about nothing but violins, narrating with great exultation how he had purchased his own Stradivarius, which was worth at least five hundred guineas, at a Jew broker's in Tottenham Court Road for fifty-five shillings. This led him to Paganini, and we sat for an hour over a bottle of claret while he told me anecdote after anecdote of that extraordinary man. The afternoon was far advanced and the hot glare had softened into a mellow glow before we found ourselves at the police-station. Lestrade was waiting for us at the door.

“A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes,” said he.

“Ha! It is the answer!” He tore it open, glanced his eyes over it, and crumpled it into his pocket. “That's all right,” said he.

“Have you found out anything?”

“I have found out everything!”

“What!” Lestrade stared at him in amazement. “You are joking.”

“I was never more serious in my life. A shocking crime has been committed, and I think I have now laid bare every detail of it.”

“And the criminal?”

Holmes scribbled a few words upon the back of one of his visiting cards and threw it over to Lestrade.

“That is the name,” he said. “You cannot effect an arrest until to-morrow night at the earliest. I should prefer that you do not mention my name at all in connection with the case, as I choose to be only associated with those crimes which present some difficulty in their solution. Come on, Watson.” We strode off together to the station, leaving Lestrade still staring with a delighted face at the card which Holmes had thrown him.

“The case,” said Sherlock Holmes as we chatted over or cigars that night in our rooms at Baker Street, “is one where, as in the investigations which you have chronicled under the names of ‘A Study in Scarlet’ and of ‘The Sign of Four,’ we have been compelled to reason backward from effects to causes. I have written to Lestrade asking him to supply us with the details which are now wanting, and which he will only get after he had secured his man. That he may be safely trusted to do, for although he is absolutely devoid of reason, he is as tenacious as a bulldog when he once understands what he has to do, and indeed, it is just this tenacity which has brought him to the top at Scotland Yard.”

“Your case is not complete, then?” I asked.

“It is fairly complete in essentials. We know who the author of the revolting business is, although one of the victims still escapes us. Of course, you have formed your own conclusions.”

“I presume that this Jim Browner, the steward of a Liverpool boat, is the man whom you suspect?”

“Oh! it is more than a suspicion.”

“And yet I cannot see anything save very vague indications.”

“On the contrary, to my mind nothing could be more clear. Let me run over the principal steps. We approached the case, you remember, with an absolutely blank mind, which is always an advantage. We had formed no theories. We were simply there to observe and to draw inferences from our observations. What did we see first? A very placid and respectable lady, who seemed quite innocent of any secret, and a portrait which showed me that she had two younger sisters. It instantly flashed across my mind that the box might have been meant for one of these. I set the idea aside as one which could be disproved or confirmed at our leisure. Then we went to the garden, as you remember, and we saw the very singular contents of the little yellow box.

“The string was of the quality which is used by sail-makers aboard ship, and at once a whiff of the sea was perceptible in our investigation. When I observed that the knot was one which is popular with sailors, that the parcel had been posted at a port, and that the male ear was pierced for an earring which is so much more common among sailors than landsmen, I was quite certain that all the actors in the tragedy were to be found among our seafaring classes.

“When I came to examine the address of the packet I observed that it was to Miss S. Cushing. Now, the oldest sister would, of course, be Miss Cushing, and although her initial was ‘S’ it might belong to one of the others as well. In that case we should have to commence our investigation from a fresh basis altogether. I therefore went into the house with the intention of clearing up this point. I was about to assure Miss Cushing that I was convinced that a mistake had been made when you may remember that I came suddenly to a stop. The fact was that I had just seen something which filled me with surprise and at the same time narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely.

“As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part of the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as a rule quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. In last year's Anthropological Journal you will find two short monographs from my pen upon the subject. I had, therefore, examined the ears in the box with the eyes of an expert and had carefully noted their anatomical peculiarities. Imagine my surprise, then, when on looking at Miss Cushing I perceived that her ear corresponded exactly with the female ear which I had just inspected. The matter was entirely beyond coincidence. There was the same shortening of the pinna, the same broad curve of the upper lobe, the same convolution of the inner cartilage. In all essentials it was the same ear.

“In the first place, her sister's name was Sarah, and her address had until recently been the same, so that it was quite obvious how the mistake had occurred and for whom the packet was meant. Then we heard of this steward, married to the third sister, and learned that he had at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah that she had actually gone up to Liverpool to be near the Browners, but a quarrel had afterwards divided them. This quarrel had put a stop to all communications for some months, so that if Browner had occasion to address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would undoubtedly have done so to her old address.

“And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out wonderfully. We had learned of the existence of this steward, an impulsive man, of strong passions—you remember that he threw up what must have been a very superior berth in order to be nearer to his wife—subject, too, to occasional fits of hard drinking. We had reason to believe that his wife had been murdered, and that a man—presumably a seafaring man—had been murdered at the same time. Jealousy, of course, at once suggests itself as the motive for the crime. And why should these proofs of the deed be sent to Miss Sarah Cushing? Probably because during her residence in Liverpool she had some hand in bringing about the events which led to the tragedy. You will observe that this line of boats call at Belfast, Dublin, and Waterford; so that, presuming that Browner had committed the deed and had embarked at once upon his steamer, the May Day, Belfast would be the first place at which he could post his terrible packet.

“A second solution was at this stage obviously possible, and although I thought it exceedingly unlikely, I was determined to elucidate it before going further. An unsuccessful lover might have killed Mr. and Mrs. Browner, and the male ear might have belonged to the husband. There were many grave objections to this theory, but it was conceivable. I therefore sent off a telegram to my friend Algar, of the Liverpool force, and asked him to find out if Mrs. Browner were at home, and if Browner had departed in the May Day. Then we went on to Wallington to visit Miss Sarah.

“I was curious, in the first place, to see how far the family ear had been reproduced in her. Then, of course, she might give us very important information, but I was not sanguine that she would. She must have heard of the business the day before, since all Croydon was ringing with it, and she alone could have understood for whom the packet was meant. If she had been willing to help justice she would probably have communicated with the police already. However, it was clearly our duty to see her, so we went. We found that the news of the arrival of the packet—for her illness dated from that time—had such an effect upon her as to bring on brain fever. It was clearer than ever that she understood its full significance, but equally clear that we should have to wait some time for any assistance from her.

“However, we were really independent of her help. Our answers were waiting for us at the police-station, where I had directed Algar to send them. Nothing could be more conclusive. Mrs. Browner's house had been closed for more than three days, and the neighbours were of opinion that she had gone south to see her relatives. It had been ascertained at the shipping offices that Browner had left aboard of the May Day, and I calculate that she is due in the Thames tomorrow night. When he arrives he will be met by the obtuse but resolute Lestrade, and I have no doubt that we shall have all our details filled in.”

Sherlock Holmes was not disappointed in his expectations. Two days later he received a bulky envelope, which contained a short note from the detective, and a typewritten document, which covered several pages of foolscap.

“Lestrade has got him all right,” said Holmes, glancing up at me. “Perhaps it would interest you to hear what he says.

“My dear Mr. Holmes:

“In accordance with the scheme which we had formed in order to test our theories” [“the ‘we’ is rather fine, Watson, is it not?”] “I went down to the Albert Dock yesterday at 6 p.m., and boarded the S.S. May Day, belonging to the Liverpool, Dublin, and London Steam Packet Company. On inquiry, I found that there was a steward on board of the name of James Browner and that he had acted during the voyage in such an extraordinary manner that the captain had been compelled to relieve him of his duties. On descending to his berth, I found him seated upon a chest with his head sunk upon his hands, rocking himself to and fro. He is a big, powerful chap, clean-shaven, and very swarthy—something like Aldrige, who helped us in the bogus laundry affair. He jumped up when he heard my business, and I had my whistle to my lips to call a couple of river police, who were round the corner, but he seemed to have no heart in him, and he held out his hands quietly enough for the darbies. We brought him along to the cells, and his box as well, for we thought there might be something incriminating; but, bar a big sharp knife such as most sailors have, we got nothing for our trouble. However, we find that we shall want no more evidence, for on being brought before the inspector at the station he asked leave to make a statement, which was, of course, taken down, just as he made it, by our shorthand man. We had three copies typewritten, one of which I enclose. The affair proves, as I always thought it would, to be an extremely simple one, but I am obliged to you for assisting me in my investigation. With kind regards,

“Yours very truly,

“G. Lestrade.

“Hum! The investigation really was a very simple one,” remarked Holmes, “but I don't think it struck him in that light when he first called us in. However, let us see what Jim Browner has to say for himself. This is his statement as made before Inspector Montgomery at the Shadwell Police Station, and it has the advantage of being verbatim.”

“‘Have I anything to say? Yes, I have a deal to say. I have to make a clean breast of it all. You can hang me, or you can leave me alone. I don't care a plug which you do. I tell you I've not shut an eye in sleep since I did it, and I don't believe I ever will again until I get past all waking. Sometimes it's his face, but most generally it's hers. I'm never without one or the other before me. He looks frowning and black-like, but she has a kind o' surprise upon her face. Ay, the white lamb, she might well be surprised when she read death on a face that had seldom looked anything but love upon her before.

“‘But it was Sarah's fault, and may the curse of a broken man put a blight on her and set the blood rotting in her veins! It's not that I want to clear myself. I know that I went back to drink, like the beast that I was. But she would have forgiven me; she would have stuck as close to me as a rope to a block if that woman had never darkened our door. For Sarah Cushing loved me—that's the root of the business—she loved me until all her love turned to poisonous hate when she knew that I thought more of my wife's footmark in the mud than I did of her whole body and soul.

“‘There were three sisters altogether. The old one was just a good woman, the second was a devil, and the third was an angel. Sarah was thirty-three, and Mary was twenty-nine when I married. We were just as happy as the day was long when we set up house together, and in all Liverpool there was no better woman than my Mary. And then we asked Sarah up for a week, and the week grew into a month, and one thing led to another, until she was just one of ourselves.

“‘I was blue ribbon at that time, and we were putting a little money by, and all was as bright as a new dollar. My God, whoever would have thought that it could have come to this? Whoever would have dreamed it?

“‘I used to be home for the week-ends very often, and sometimes if the ship were held back for cargo I would have a whole week at a time, and in this way I saw a deal of my sister-in-law, Sarah. She was a fine tall woman, black and quick and fierce, with a proud way of carrying her head, and a glint from her eye like a spark from a flint. But when little Mary was there I had never a thought of her, and that I swear as I hope for God's mercy.

“‘It had seemed to me sometimes that she liked to be alone with me, or to coax me out for a walk with her, but I had never thought anything of that. But one evening my eyes were opened. I had come up from the ship and found my wife out, but Sarah at home. “Where's Mary?” I asked. “Oh, she has gone to pay some accounts.” I was impatient and paced up and down the room. “Can't you be happy for five minutes without Mary, Jim?” says she. “It's a bad compliment to me that you can't be contented with my society for so short a time.” “That's all right, my lass,” said I, putting out my hand towards her in a kindly way, but she had it in both hers in an instant, and they burned as if they were in a fever. I looked into her eyes and I read it all there. There was no need for her to speak, nor for me either. I frowned and drew my hand away. Then she stood by my side in silence for a bit, and then put up her hand and patted me on the shoulder. “Steady old Jim!” said she, and with a kind o' mocking laugh, she ran out of the room.

“‘Well, from that time Sarah hated me with her whole heart and soul, and she is a woman who can hate, too. I was a fool to let her go on biding with us—a besotted fool—but I never said a word to Mary, for I knew it would grieve her. Things went on much as before, but after a time I began to find that there was a bit of a change in Mary herself. She had always been so trusting and so innocent, but now she became queer and suspicious, wanting to know where I had been and what I had been doing, and whom my letters were from, and what I had in my pockets, and a thousand such follies. Day by day she grew queerer and more irritable, and we had ceaseless rows about nothing. I was fairly puzzled by it all. Sarah avoided me now, but she and Mary were just inseparable. I can see now how she was plotting and scheming and poisoning my wife's mind against me, but I was such a blind beetle that I could not understand it at the time. Then I broke my blue ribbon and began to drink again, but I think I should not have done it if Mary had been the same as ever. She had some reason to be disgusted with me now, and the gap between us began to be wider and wider. And then this Alec Fairbairn chipped in, and things became a thousand times blacker.

“‘It was to see Sarah that he came to my house first, but soon it was to see us, for he was a man with winning ways, and he made friends wherever he went. He was a dashing, swaggering chap, smart and curled, who had seen half the world and could talk of what he had seen. He was good company, I won't deny it, and he had wonderful polite ways with him for a sailor man, so that I think there must have been a time when he knew more of the poop than the forecastle. For a month he was in and out of my house, and never once did it cross my mind that harm might come of his soft, tricky ways. And then at last something made me suspect, and from that day my peace was gone forever.

“‘It was only a little thing, too. I had come into the parlour unexpected, and as I walked in at the door I saw a light of welcome on my wife's face. But as she saw who it was it faded again, and she turned away with a look of disappointment. That was enough for me. There was no one but Alec Fairbairn whose step she could have mistaken for mine. If I could have seen him then I should have killed him, for I have always been like a madman when my temper gets loose. Mary saw the devil's light in my eyes, and she ran forward with her hands on my sleeve. “Don't, Jim, don't!” says she. “Where's Sarah?” I asked. “In the kitchen,” says she. “Sarah,” says I as I went in, “this man Fairbairn is never to darken my door again.” “Why not?” says she. “Because I order it.” “Oh!” says she, “if my friends are not good enough for this house, then I am not good enough for it either.” “You can do what you like,” says I, “but if Fairbairn shows his face here again I'll send you one of his ears for a keepsake.” She was frightened by my face, I think, for she never answered a word, and the same evening she left my house.

“‘Well, I don't know now whether it was pure devilry on the part of this woman, or whether she thought that she could turn me against my wife by encouraging her to misbehave. Anyway, she took a house just two streets off and let lodgings to sailors. Fairbairn used to stay there, and Mary would go round to have tea with her sister and him. How often she went I don't know, but I followed her one day, and as I broke in at the door Fairbairn got away over the back garden wall, like the cowardly skunk that he was. I swore to my wife that I would kill her if I found her in his company again, and I led her back with me, sobbing and trembling, and as white as a piece of paper. There was no trace of love between us any longer. I could see that she hated me and feared me, and when the thought of it drove me to drink, then she despised me as well.

“‘Well, Sarah found that she could not make a living in Liverpool, so she went back, as I understand, to live with her sister in Croydon, and things jogged on much the same as ever at home. And then came this week and all the misery and ruin.

“‘It was in this way. We had gone on the May Day for a round voyage of seven days, but a hogshead got loose and started one of our plates, so that we had to put back into port for twelve hours. I left the ship and came home, thinking what a surprise it would be for my wife, and hoping that maybe she would be glad to see me so soon. The thought was in my head as I turned into my own street, and at that moment a cab passed me, and there she was, sitting by the side of Fairbairn, the two chatting and laughing, with never a thought for me as I stood watching them from the footpath.

“‘I tell you, and I give you my word for it, that from that moment I was not my own master, and it is all like a dim dream when I look back on it. I had been drinking hard of late, and the two things together fairly turned my brain. There's something throbbing in my head now, like a docker's hammer, but that morning I seemed to have all Niagara whizzing and buzzing in my ears.

“‘Well, I took to my heels, and I ran after the cab. I had a heavy oak stick in my hand, and I tell you I saw red from the first; but as I ran I got cunning, too, and hung back a little to see them without being seen. They pulled up soon at the railway station. There was a good crowd round the booking-office, so I got quite close to them without being seen. They took tickets for New Brighton. So did I, but I got in three carriages behind them. When we reached it they walked along the Parade, and I was never more than a hundred yards from them. At last I saw them hire a boat and start for a row, for it was a very hot day, and they thought, no doubt, that it would be cooler on the water.

“‘It was just as if they had been given into my hands. There was a bit of a haze, and you could not see more than a few hundred yards. I hired a boat for myself, and I pulled after them. I could see the blur of their craft, but they were going nearly as fast as I, and they must have been a long mile from the shore before I caught them up. The haze was like a curtain all round us, and there were we three in the middle of it. My God, shall I ever forget their faces when they saw who was in the boat that was closing in upon them? She screamed out. He swore like a madman and jabbed at me with an oar, for he must have seen death in my eyes. I got past it and got one in with my stick that crushed his head like an egg. I would have spared her, perhaps, for all my madness, but she threw her arms round him, crying out to him, and calling him “Alec.” I struck again, and she lay stretched beside him. I was like a wild beast then that had tasted blood. If Sarah had been there, by the Lord, she should have joined them. I pulled out my knife, and—well, there! I've said enough. It gave me a kind of savage joy when I thought how Sarah would feel when she had such signs as these of what her meddling had brought about. Then I tied the bodies into the boat, stove a plank, and stood by until they had sunk. I knew very well that the owner would think that they had lost their bearings in the haze, and had drifted off out to sea. I cleaned myself up, got back to land, and joined my ship without a soul having a suspicion of what had passed. That night I made up the packet for Sarah Cushing, and next day I sent it from Belfast.

“‘There you have the whole truth of it. You can hang me, or do what you like with me, but you cannot punish me as I have been punished already. I cannot shut my eyes but I see those two faces staring at me—staring at me as they stared when my boat broke through the haze. I killed them quick, but they are killing me slow; and if I have another night of it I shall be either mad or dead before morning. You won't put me alone into a cell, sir? For pity's sake don't, and may you be treated in your day of agony as you treat me now.’

“What is the meaning of it, Watson?” said Holmes solemnly as he laid down the paper. “What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever.”

硬纸盒子

为了选择几桩典型案子来说明我的朋友歇洛克·福尔摩斯的卓越才智，我尽可能少选那些耸人听闻的事情，而只提供最能显示他的才能的案件。可是，不幸的是，又不可能把耸人听闻和犯罪截然分开。笔者真是左右为难，要么必须牺牲那些对于他的叙述必不可少的细节，从而给问题加上一种虚构的印象，要么就得使用机缘而不是选择所得的材料。说了这番简短的开场白之后，我将翻阅我的记录，看一看这一连串虽然特别可怕但却十分离奇的事件。

八月的一天，骄一栆凰苹稹１纯私窒笠蛔鹇Ｒ粬一光照在大街对面房子的黄色砖墙上，刺得人们的眼睛发痛。在冬天隐约出现在朦胧迷雾之中的也是这些砖墙，真叫人难以置信。我们的百叶窗放下一半，福尔摩斯蜷缩在沙发上，拿着早班邮差送来的信一看再看。我呢，我在印度工作过，练就了一身怕冷不怕热的本领，华氏九十度的气一温一也受得住。晨报枯燥无味。议院已经散会。人人都出城去了，我也想去新森林或者南海海滨，但银行存款已经用完，我只得把假日推迟。至于我的同伴，乡下和海边都引不其他丝毫兴趣。他愿意呆在五百万人的中心，把他的触角伸到他们中间，锐敏地探索需要侦破的每一个谣传和疑点。他的天赋虽高，却不会欣赏自然。只有当他把注意力从城里的坏分子转向乡下的恶棍时，他才到乡间去换换空气。

看到福尔摩斯全神贯注，不想谈话，我把枯燥乏味的报纸扔在一边，靠在椅子上陷入沉思。正在这时，我同伴的声音突然打断了我的思路。

“你是对的，华生，"他说，“它看来是一种最荒谬的解决争执的办法。”

“最荒谬！"我惊呼道，突然意识到他说出了我内心想要说的话。我在椅子上直起身来，吃惊地凝视着他。

“这是怎么一回事，福尔摩斯？"我喊道，"这真是出我意料。”

看见我迷惑不解，他爽朗地笑了。

“你记得，"他说，“不久前我给你读过一爱一伦·坡的一篇短文中的一段。里面有一个人把他同伴没有说出来的想法一一推论出来。你当时认为，这不过是作者的一种巧妙手法。我说我也常常有同样的推理一习一惯，你听后表示不相信。”

“哪里的话！”

“你嘴里也许没有这样说，亲一爱一的华生，但是你的眉一毛一肯定是这样说的。所以，当我看到你扔下报纸陷入沉思的时候，我很高兴有机会可以对此加以推论，并且终于打断你的思索，以证明我对你的关注。”

不过我还是很不满足。"你读给我听的那个例子中，"我说，“那个推论者是以观察他的同伴的举动而得出结论的。如果我没有记错，他的同伴被一堆石头绊了一跤，抬头望着星星，如此等等。可是我一直安静地坐在我的椅子里，这又能给你提供什么线索呢？”

“你这可是冤枉你自己了。脸部表情是人们用来表达感情的方式，而你的面部表情正是你的忠实仆人。”

“你是说，你从我的面部表情上看出了我的思路？”

“你的面部表情，特别是你的眼睛。你是怎样陷入沉思的，也许你自己也想不起来了吧？”

“想不起来了。”

“那么我来告诉你。你扔下报纸，这个动作引起了我对你的注意。你毫无表情地坐了半分钟。然后你的眼光落在你最近配上镜框的戈登将军的照片上。这样，我从你脸部表情的变化上看出你开始思考了。不过想得不很远。你的眼光又转到放在你书上的那张还没有配镜框的亨利·华德·比彻的照片上面。后来，你又抬头望着墙，你的意思当然是显而易见的。你是在想，这张照譬如果也装进框子，正好盖上那面墙上的空白，和那边戈登的照片相对称。”

“你对我观察得真透彻！"我惊讶地说。

“到此为止，我还没有看清。可是，你当时的思路又回到比彻上面去了。你一直盯住他，好象在研究他的相貌特征。然后，你的眼神松一弛了，不过你仍旧在望着，满面心思。你在回想比彻的战绩。我很清楚，这样你就一定会想到内战期间比彻代表北方所承担的使命，因为我记得，你认为我们的人民对他态度粗一暴，对此你表示过强烈的不满。你对此事的感受是如此强烈，因此我知道，你一想到比彻就会想到这些。过了一会儿，我看见你的眼光离开了照片，我猜想你的思路现在已转到内战方面。我观察到你闭着嘴唇，眼睛闪闪发光，两手紧一握着，这时我断定你是在回想那场殊死搏斗中双方所表现出来的英勇气概。但是接着，你的脸色又变得更一一暗了，你摇着头。你在思量悲惨、恐怖和无谓的牺牲。你的手伸向身上的旧伤痕，嘴角颤一动着露出一丝微笑，这向我表明，你的思想已为这种可笑的解决国际问题的方法所占据。在这一点上，我同意你的看法：那是愚蠢的。我高兴地发现，我的全部推论都是正确的。”

“完全正确！"我说。“不过现在你已经解释过了，可是我承认，我还是和刚才一样不理解。”

“华生，这确实是十分肤浅的。如果不是你那天表示有些不相信，我是不会用这件事来分散你的注意力的。不过，我手里有一个小问题，要解决它，一定比我在思维解释方面的小尝试更加困难。报上有一段报道，说克罗伊登十字大街的库辛小一姐收到一只盒子，里面装的东西出人意料。你注意到没有？”

“没有。我没有见到。”

“啊！那一定是你看漏了。把报纸扔给我。在这儿，在金融栏下面。劳驾，大声念一念。”

我把他扔给我的报纸拾起来，念了他指定的那一段。标题是《一个吓人的包裹》。

"苏珊·库辛小一姐住克罗伊登十字大街。她成了一次特别令人作呕的恶作剧的受害者，除非这件事另有更为险恶的用心。昨天下午二时，邮差送去一个牛皮纸包着的小包裹。包裹里是一只硬纸盒，盒内装满粗盐。库辛小一姐拨一开粗盐，吓了一大跳。她看见里面有两只显然是刚割下不久的人耳朵。这只包裹是头天上午从贝尔法斯特邮局寄出的。没有写明寄件人是谁。使问题更加神秘的是，库辛小一姐是一位年已五十的老处一女，过着隐居生活，来往友人和通信者甚少，平日难得收到邮包。但在几年前，当她卜居彭奇时，曾将几个房间出租给三个医学院学生。后因他们吵闹，生活又不规律，不得不叫他们搬走。警方认为，对库辛小一姐的这一粗一暴行径，可能是这三名青年所为。他们出于怨恨，将解剖室的遗物邮寄给她，以示恐吓。另亦有看法，认为这些青年中有一名是一爱一尔兰北部人，而据库辛小一姐所知，此人是贝尔法斯特人。目前这一事件正在积极调查中。卓越侦缉官员之一雷斯垂德先生正负责处理此案。”

“《每日记事》报就谈了这么多，"当我读完报纸，福尔摩斯说。"现在来谈谈我们的朋友雷斯垂德吧。今天早晨我收到他一封信。信里说：

‘我认为你对此案极为在行。我们正在竭力查清此事，但继续工作品感困难。我们自然已经电询贝尔法斯特邮局。但当天一交一寄的包裹极多，无法单一辨认或回忆寄件人姓名。这是一只半磅装甘露烟草盒子，对我们毫无帮助。医学院学生之说我看仍然最有可能，但如果你能一抽一出几个小时，我将非常高兴在这里见到你。我整天不在这宅子里就在警察所。

“你看怎么样，华生？能不能不顾炎热跟我到克罗伊登走一趟，为你的记事本增加一页内容？”

“我正想干点什么哩。”

“这就有事了。请你按一下铃，叫他们把我们的靴子拿来，再去叫一辆马车。我换好衣服，把烟丝盒子装满，马上就来。”

我们上了火车之后，下了一阵雨。克罗伊登不象城里那样暑气一逼一人。福尔摩斯事前已经发了电报，所以雷斯垂德已在车站等候我们。他象往常一样一精一明强干，一副侦探派头。步行了五分钟，我们来到库辛小一姐住的十字大街。

这条街很长，街旁是两层楼的砖房，清洁而整齐，屋前的石阶已被踩成白色，系着围裙的妇女三五成群地在门口闲谈。走过半条街后，雷斯垂德站下来去敲一家的大门。一个年幼女仆开了门。我们被带进前厅，看见库辛小一姐正坐在那里。她是个面貌一温一和的妇女，一对文静的大眼睛，灰色的卷发垂落在两鬓。她的膝上搁着一只没有绣完的椅套，身边放着一个装有各色丝线的篮子。

“那可怕的东西在外屋，"当雷斯垂德走进去时，她说，“我希望你把它们都拿走。”

“是要拿走的，库辛小一姐。我放在这儿，只是让我的朋友福尔摩斯先生来当着你的面看一看。”

“干吗要当着我的面，先生？”

“说不定他想提出一些问题。”

“我说，这事我一无所知，向我提问又有什么用处？”

“确实如此，太太，"福尔摩斯用安慰的语气说道，“我不怀疑，这件事已经够使你气恼的啦。”

“是啊，先生。我是个喜欢安静的女人，过着隐居的生活。看见我的名字登在报上，警察到我家里来，对我真是新鲜的事情。我不愿意让这东西放在我这儿，雷斯垂德先生。如果你要看，请到外面的屋里去看吧。”

那是一间小棚子，在屋背后的小花园里。雷斯垂德进去拿出一个黄色的硬纸盒，一张牛皮纸和一段细绳子。在小路尽头有个石凳，我们都坐在石凳上。这时，福尔摩斯把雷斯垂德递给他的东西一一察看。

“绳子特别有意思，"说着他把绳子举到亮处，用鼻子嗅了一嗅。"你看这绳子是什么做的，雷斯垂德？”

“涂过柏油。”

“一点儿不错。是涂过柏油的麻绳。无疑，你也注意到了，库辛小一姐是用剪刀把绳子剪断的。这一点可以从两端的磨损看出来。这很重要。”

“我看不出这有什么重要，"雷斯垂德说。

“重要就在于绳结原封未动。还有，这个绳结打得很不一般。”

“打得很一精一致。这一点，我已经注意到了，"雷斯垂德得意地说。

“那么，关于绳子就谈这么多吧，"福尔摩斯微笑着说，“现在来看包裹纸。牛皮纸，有一股明显的咖啡味。怎么，没有检查过？肯定没有检查过。地址的字写得很零乱：‘克罗伊登十字大街Ｓ·库辛小一姐收，是用笔头很粗的钢笔写的，也许是一支Ｊ字牌的，墨水很差。克罗伊登一词原来是拼写的字母i，后来被改成字母y了。这个包裹是个男人寄的——字体显然是男人的字体——此人受的教育有限，对克罗伊登镇也不熟悉。到目前为止，一切顺利！盒子是一个半磅装甘露烟草盒子。除了盒子左下角有指印外，没有明显痕迹。里面装的是用来保存兽皮或其它粗制商品的粗盐。埋在盐里的就是这奇怪的东西。”

他一面说，一面取出两只耳朵皮放在膝头上仔细观察。这时雷斯垂德和我各在一边弯下一身一子，一会儿望着这可怕的遗物，一会儿又望着我们同伴的那张深沉而迫切的脸。最后，他又把它们放回盒子，坐在那里沉思了一会儿。

“你们当然都看到了，"他最后说，"这两只耳朵不是一对。”

“不错，我们注意到了。可是，如果真是解剖室的学生们搞的恶作剧，那么，他们是很容易挑两只不成对的耳朵配对的。”

“很对。但这不是一个恶作剧。”

“你能肯定吗？”

“根据推测，决不可能是恶作剧。解剖室里的一尸一体都注射过防腐剂。这两只耳朵上没有这种痕迹，是新鲜的，是用一种很钝的工具割下来的。如果是学生干的，情况不会是这样。还有，学医的人只会用石碳酸或蒸馏酒一精一进行防腐，当然不会用粗盐。我再说一遍，这不是什么恶作剧，我们是在侦查一桩严重的犯罪案件。”

听了福尔摩斯的话，看着他的脸色变得严肃起来，我不由得打了一个寒战。这段冷酷的开场白似乎投下了某种奇异而不可名状的恐怖的一一影。然而，雷斯垂德摇摇头，好象只是半信半疑。

“毫无疑问，恶作剧的提法是说不过去的，"他说，“可是另外一种说法就更加不能成立了。我们知道，这个妇女在彭奇过着一种平静而体面的生活，近二十年来一直如此。这段时间里，她几乎一天也没有离开过家。罪犯为什么偏要把犯罪的证据送给她呢？特别是，她同我们一样，对这件事所知不多，除非她是个极其高明的女演员。”

“这就是我们必须解决的问题，"福尔摩斯回答说，“至于我呢，我要这样着手。我认为我的论据是对的，而且这是一桩双重的谋杀案。一只耳朵是女人的，形状纤巧，穿过耳环。另一只是男人的，晒得很黑，已经变色，也穿过耳环。这两个人可能已经死去，不然我们早就会听到他们的遭遇了。今天是星期五。包裹是星期四上午寄出的。那么，这场悲剧是发生在星期三或星期二，甚至更早一些。如果这两个人已被谋杀，那么，不是谋害者把这谋杀的信号送给库辛小一姐的又是谁呢？我们可以这样设想，寄包裹的人就是我们要找的人。不过，他把包裹送给库辛小一姐，其中必有道理。然而，道理又何在呢？一定是告诉她，事情已经办完！或者是为了使她痛心。这样，她就应该知道这个人是谁。她知道吗？我怀疑。如果她知道，又为什么报告警察？她本可以把耳朵一埋了事，谁也查不出来。她应该这样干，如果她想包庇罪犯的话。但是，如果她不想包庇他，她就会说出他的姓名。这就是症结所在，需要我们去查明的。”他说话的声音一直高而急，茫然瞪着外面的花园篱笆，可是现在，他轻快地站了起来向屋里走去。

“我想问库辛小一姐几个问题，"他说。

“那么，我就告辞了，"雷斯垂德说，“我手头还有些小事要办。我想我不需要进一步向库辛小一姐了解什么了。你可以在警察所找到我。”

“我们上火车的时候，会顺道去看望你的，"福尔摩斯回答说。过了一会儿，他和我走进前屋，那位缺少热情的女士仍然静静地在绣她的椅套。我们走进屋时，她把椅套放到膝上，用她那双坦率、探索的蓝眼睛看着我们。

“先生，我深信，"她说，“这件事是一个误会，包裹根本就是想寄给我的。这一点，我已经对苏格兰场的那位先生说过多次了，可是他总是对我一笑了之。据我所知，我在这个世界上没有敌人，为什么有人要这样捉弄我呢？”

“我也这样想，库辛小一姐，"福尔摩斯说，一边在她旁边的椅子