“The old story, Watson. A treacherous friend and a fickle wife. Itwould appear that Amberley has one hobby in life, and it is chess.
Not far from him at Lewisham there lives a young doctor whois also a chess-player. I have noted his name as Dr. Ray Ernest.
Ernest was frequently in the house, and an intimacy between himand Mrs. Amberley was a natural sequence, for you must admitthat our unfortunate client has few outward graces, whatever hisinner virtues may be. The couple went off together last week—destination untraced. What is more, the faithless spouse carriedoff the old man’s deed-box as her personal luggage with a goodpart of his life’s savings within. Can we find the lady? Can we savethe money? A commonplace problem so far as it has developed,and yet a vital one for Josiah Amberley.”
“What will you do about it?”
“Well, the immediate question, my dear Watson, happens tobe, What will you do? —if you will be good enough to understudyme. You know that I am preoccupied with this case of the twoCoptic Patriarchs, which should come to a head to-day. I reallyhave not time to go out to Lewisham, and yet evidence taken onthe spot has a special value. The old fellow was quite insistent thatI should go, but I explained my difficulty. He is prepared to meet arepresentative.”
“By all means,” I answered. “I confess I don’t see that I can be ofmuch service, but I am willing to do my best.” And so it was thaton a summer afternoon I set forth to Lewisham, little dreamingthat within a week the affair in which I was engaging would be theeager debate of all England.
It was late that evening before I returned to Baker Street andgave an account of my mission. Holmes lay with his gaunt figurestretched in his deep chair, his pipe curling forth slow wreathsof acrid tobacco, while his eyelids drooped over his eyes so lazilythat he might almost have been asleep were it not that at any haltor questionable passage of my narrative they half lifted, and twogray eyes, as bright and keen as rapiers, transfixed me with theirsearching glance.
“The Haven is the name of Mr. Josiah Amberley’s house,”
I explained. “I think it would interest you, Holmes. It is likesome penurious patrician who has sunk into the company of hisinferiors. You know that particular quarter, the monotonous brickstreets, the weary suburban highways. Right in the middle ofthem, a little island of ancient culture and comfort, lies this oldhome, surrounded by a high sun-baked wall mottled with lichensand topped with moss, the sort of wall——”
“Cut out the poetry, Watson,” said Holmes severely. “I note thatit was a high brick wall.”
“Exactly. I should not have known which was The Haven had Inot asked a lounger who was smoking in the street. I have a reasonfor mentioning him. He was a tall, dark, heavily moustached,rather military-looking man. He nodded in answer to my inquiryand gave me a curiously questioning glance, which came back tomy memory a little later.
“I had hardly entered the gateway before I saw Mr. Amberleycoming down the drive. I only had a glimpse of him this morning,and he certainly gave me the impression of a strange creature,but when I saw him in full light his appearance was even moreabnormal.”
“I have, of course, studied it, and yet I should be interested tohave your impression,” said Holmes.
“He seemed to me like a man who was literally bowed down bycare. His back was curved as though he carried a heavy burden.
Yet he was not the weakling that I had at first imagined, for hisshoulders and chest have the framework of a giant, though hisfigure tapers away into a pair of spindled legs.”
“Left shoe wrinkled, right one smooth.”
“I did not observe that.”
“No, you wouldn’t. I spotted his artificial limb. But proceed.”
“I was struck by the snaky locks of grizzled hair which curledfrom under his old straw hat, and his face with its fierce, eagerexpression and the deeply lined features.”
“Very good, Watson. What did he say?”
“He began pouring out the story of his grievances. We walkeddown the drive together, and of course I took a good look round.
I have never seen a worse-kept place. The garden was all runningto seed, giving me an impression of wild neglect in which theplants had been allowed to find the way of Nature rather thanof art. How any decent woman could have tolerated such a stateof things, I don’t know. The house, too, was slatternly to the lastdegree, but the poor man seemed himself to be aware of it andto be trying to remedy it, for a great pot of green paint stood inthe centre of the hall, and he was carrying a thick brush in his lefthand. He had been working on the woodwork.
“He took me into his dingy sanctum, and we had a long chat.
Of course, he was disappointed that you had not come yourself. ‘Ihardly expected,’ he said, ‘that so humble an individual as myself,especially after my heavy financial loss, could obtain the completeattention of so famous a man as Mr. Sherlock Holmes.’
“I assured him that the financial question did not arise. ‘Noof course, it is art for art’s sake with him,’ said he, ‘but even onthe artistic side of crime he might have found something here tostudy. And human nature, Dr. Watson—the black ingratitude of itall! When did I ever refuse one of her requests? Was ever a womanso pampered? And that young man—he might have been my ownson. He had the run of my house. And yet see how they havetreated me! Oh, Dr. Watson, it is a dreadful, dreadful world!’
“That was the burden of his song for an hour or more. He had,it seems, no suspicion of an intrigue. They lived alone save for awoman who comes in by the day and leaves every evening at six.
On that particular evening old Amberley, wishing to give his wife atreat, had taken two upper circle seats at the Haymarket Theatre.
At the last moment she had complained of a headache and hadrefused to go. He had gone alone. There seemed to be no doubtabout the fact, for he produced the unused ticket which he hadtaken for his wife.”