[adapted]

by
Arthur Conan Doyle

I

To Sherlock Holmes, she is always the woman. I have rarely heard him call her by any other name. In his eyes, she was more important and impressive than any other woman. It wasn’t because he felt anything like love for Irene Adler. All feelings—especially love—were unpleasant to his cold, exact, but well-balanced mind. He was, I believe, the best thinking and observing machine the world had ever seen. But if he had tried to be a lover, it wouldn’t have fit him. He never talked about love or romance, except to laugh at it or make fun of it. He thought emotions were useful—for understanding other people and why they acted the way they did. But for someone like him, who needed clear and careful thinking, feelings were a problem. Letting emotions in would confuse his thoughts and weaken his results. It would be like dust in a fine machine or a crack in one of his powerful lenses. Nothing would upset him more than strong feelings. And yet, there was only one woman for him, and that was the late Irene Adler—a woman with a mysterious and questionable past.

I had not seen much of Holmes recently. After I got married, we slowly drifted apart. I was completely happy, and my life at home kept me busy. Holmes, who hated all kinds of social life with his wild and free spirit, stayed in our old rooms on Baker Street. He lived among his books and went back and forth between using cocaine and chasing his goals—between the sleepy state the drug gave him and the sharp energy of his brilliant mind. He was still very interested in studying crime. He used his amazing brain and sharp eyes to follow clues and solve cases the police had given up on. I heard news now and then about what he was doing: he was called to Odessa for the Trepoff murder, solved the strange death of the Atkinson brothers in Trincomalee, and completed a very delicate job for the royal family of Holland. But other than these things—which I read about in the newspapers just like everyone else—I knew little about my old friend.

One night—March 20th, 1888—I was returning from visiting a patient (I had gone back to being a doctor), and I passed through Baker Street. As I walked by the familiar door, which reminded me of when I met my wife and of the dark case from A Study in Scarlet, I suddenly felt a strong wish to see Holmes again, and to find out what kind of problem was keeping his mind busy. His rooms were brightly lit, and as I looked up, I saw his tall, thin figure walk quickly in front of the window—twice. He was pacing the room with his head down and his hands behind his back. I knew all his moods and habits, and I could tell right away—he was working. He had come out of his drug-filled dreams and was hot on the trail of a new mystery. I rang the bell and was shown into the room that had once partly belonged to me.

His manner was not very warm. It rarely was; but I think he was glad to see me. Without saying much, but with a kind look in his eyes, he pointed to an armchair for me to sit in, tossed me his box of cigars, and showed me the drinks and soda bottle in the corner. Then he stood in front of the fire and looked at me in his usual quiet, thoughtful way.

“Marriage suits you,” he said. “I think, Watson, you’ve gained seven and a half pounds since I last saw you.”

“Seven!” I replied.

“Really, I would have guessed a little more. Just a bit more, I think, Watson. And you’re working as a doctor again, I see. You didn’t tell me you were going back to work.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I see it. I figure it out. How do I know you’ve been out in the rain lately, and that you have a very clumsy and careless servant girl?”

“My dear Holmes,” I said, “this is too much. You definitely would have been burned as a wizard if you’d lived centuries ago. It’s true that I went for a country walk on Thursday and came home a mess, but I’ve changed my clothes—I don’t see how you could know. And yes, Mary Jane is hopeless, and my wife has told her to leave, but again, how could you guess that?”

He laughed quietly and rubbed his long, thin hands together.

“It’s very simple,” he said. “I can see on the inside of your left shoe, right where the firelight hits it, the leather has six almost straight scratches. Clearly, these came from someone scraping off dried mud in a rough way. So, you see, I figured out two things: you were out in terrible weather, and your servant is very bad at cleaning boots. As for your job, if a man walks into my room smelling like medicine, with a black stain from silver nitrate on his right finger, and a bump on the side of his top hat where he hides his stethoscope, I would have to be blind not to know he’s working as a doctor again.”

I couldn’t help laughing at how easily he explained his way of figuring things out. “When I hear you explain,” I said, “it always sounds so simple that I feel like I could do it too. But every time, I’m confused until you explain how you did it. And yet, I believe my eyes are just as good as yours.”

“Exactly,” he said, lighting a cigarette and dropping into an armchair. “You see, but you do not observe. That’s the difference. For example, you’ve often seen the steps that go from the hallway up to this room.”

“Many times.”

“How often?”

“Well, maybe hundreds of times.”

“Then how many steps are there?”

“How many? I don’t know.”

“Exactly! You saw them, but you didn’t really notice them. That’s my point. Now, I know there are seventeen steps, because I both saw and paid attention. Anyway, since you enjoy these little puzzles, and since you’ve been kind enough to write down one or two of my small adventures, you may be interested in this.” He handed me a thick, pink piece of notepaper that had been lying open on the table. “It came in the last mail,” he said. “Read it out loud.”

The note had no date, no name, and no address.

“This evening, at a quarter to eight o’clock,” it said, “a man will come to visit you. He wishes to ask your advice on a matter of the greatest importance. Your recent help to one of the royal families of Europe has proven that you can be trusted with very serious matters. We have heard this about you from many sources. Be in your room at that time, and do not be surprised if your visitor wears a mask.”

“This really is a mystery,” I said. “What do you think it means?”

“I don’t have enough information yet. It’s a big mistake to guess before you have the facts. You can start changing the facts to match your ideas, instead of making your ideas fit the facts. But let’s look at the note itself. What do you figure out from it?”

I looked closely at the handwriting and the paper it was written on.

“The man who wrote it was probably rich,” I said, trying to copy Holmes’s way of thinking. “This paper must cost at least half a crown for a pack. It’s very strong and stiff.”

“‘Peculiar’—that’s exactly the word,” said Holmes. “It’s not English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”

I did, and saw a big letter “E” with a small “g,” a “P,” and then a large “G” with a small “t” woven into the paper itself.

“What do you make of that?” Holmes asked.

“It’s probably the name of the company—or their logo,” I said.

“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands for Gesellschaft, which is the German word for ‘Company.’ It’s a common short form, like our ‘Co.’ ‘P’ stands for Papier, meaning paper. Now let’s look at the ‘Eg.’ Let’s check the Continental Gazetteer.” He pulled a heavy brown book from his shelf. “Eglow… Eglonitz… Here we are—Egria. It’s in a German-speaking area—in Bohemia, near Carlsbad. ‘Famous for the death of Wallenstein and for many glass factories and paper mills.’ Ha! What do you think of that?” His eyes were bright, and he blew out a big, proud puff of blue smoke from his cigarette.

“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.

“Exactly. And the man who wrote the note is German. Did you notice the strange way the sentence was written? ‘This account of you we have from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or a Russian would not write like that. Germans often put their verbs in strange places. So now, we just need to find out what this German wants—this man who writes on Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And if I’m right… here he comes now to answer all our questions.”

As he spoke, there was the sharp sound of horses’ hooves and wheels scraping against the curb, followed by a loud pull at the doorbell. Holmes whistled.

“A pair of horses, by the sound,” he said. “Yes,” he added, looking out the window. “A neat little carriage and a fine pair of horses. About one hundred and fifty guineas each. There’s money in this case, Watson, even if there’s nothing else.”

“I think I should leave, Holmes.”

“Not at all, Doctor. Stay where you are. I’m lost without my Boswell. And this sounds interesting. It would be a shame for you to miss it.”

“But your client—”

“Don’t worry about him. I might need your help—and so might he. Here he comes. Sit in that armchair, Doctor, and pay close attention.”

A slow, heavy step was heard on the stairs and in the hallway, then it stopped right outside the door. A loud, firm knock followed.

“Come in!” said Holmes.

A man entered who must have been at least six feet six inches tall, with a chest and arms like Hercules. His clothes were fancy in a way that, in England, might be seen as bad taste. Thick strips of black fur were sewn across the sleeves and front of his double coat, and the deep blue cloak over his shoulders was lined with bright red-orange silk and fastened at the neck with a pin made of a large glowing green stone. His tall boots reached halfway up his calves and were trimmed with rich brown fur. Altogether, he looked richly dressed in a wild and flashy way. He held a wide-brimmed hat in one hand, and he wore a black mask over the top part of his face that went down past his cheekbones. It looked like he had just put it on, because one hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of his face, he looked like a strong man, with thick lips and a long, firm chin that showed he was very determined—maybe even stubborn.

“You got my note?” he asked, in a deep, rough voice with a strong German accent. “I said I would visit.” He looked at both of us, unsure of who to speak to.

“Please, take a seat,” said Holmes. “This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. He sometimes helps me with my cases. Who do I have the honour of speaking to?”

“You may call me Count Von Kramm, a nobleman from Bohemia. I understand that your friend here is a man of honour and can be trusted with something very serious. If not, I would prefer to speak to you alone.”

I stood up to leave, but Holmes grabbed my wrist and gently pushed me back into the chair. “It’s both of us, or neither of us,” he said. “You can say to him anything you would say to me.”

The Count shrugged his big shoulders. “Then I must start,” he said, “by making you both promise to keep everything secret for two years. After that, it won’t matter. But right now, it’s such a serious matter that it could affect all of Europe.”

“I promise,” said Holmes.

“And I do too,” I said.

“You must forgive the mask,” the strange visitor went on. “The important person I work for wants me to stay unknown to you. I will also admit that the name I gave you is not my real one.”

“I knew that already,” said Holmes calmly.

“This is a very sensitive matter, and every step must be taken to prevent what could become a huge scandal and bring shame on one of the royal families of Europe. To be clear, the case involves the great House of Ormstein, the royal family of Bohemia.”

“I knew that too,” Holmes said quietly, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.

The visitor looked a little surprised at the relaxed man in front of him—this man who had likely been described to him as the smartest thinker and most active detective in Europe. Holmes slowly opened his eyes again and looked impatiently at his huge client.