Part 10 (1/2)

”That's just what I don't want to do,” said she. ”That information might bias your final judgment. If, however, acting on the clews which you have, you confirm my impression that I am such and such a person, as well as the views which other people have, then will my status be well defined and I can inst.i.tute my suit against my husband for a judicial separation, with back alimony, with some a.s.surance of a successful issue.”

I was more puzzled than ever.

”Well,” said I, slowly, ”I of course can see how a bit of swan's-down and a lock of yellow hair backed up by a pair of silver-tinsel tights might const.i.tute reasonable evidence in a suit for separation, but wouldn't it--ah--be more to your purpose if I should use these data as establis.h.i.+ng the ident.i.ty of--er--somebody else?”

”How very dense you are,” she replied, impatiently. ”That's precisely what I want you to do.”

”But you told me it was your ident.i.ty you wished proven,” I put in, irritably.

”Precisely,” said she.

”Then these bits of evidence are--yours?” I asked, hesitatingly. One does not like to accuse a lady of an undue liking for tinsel.

”They are all I have left of my husband,” she answered with a sob.

”Hum!” said I, my perplexity increasing. ”Was the--ah--the gentleman blown up by dynamite?”

”Excuse me, Mr. Holmes,” she retorted, rising and running the scales.

”I think, after all, I have come to the wrong shop. Have you Hawkshaw's address handy? You are too obtuse for a detective.”

My reputation was at stake, so I said, significantly:

”Good! Good! I was merely trying one of my disguises on you, madame, and you were completely taken in. Of course no one would ever know me for Sherlock Holmes if I manifested such dullness.”

”Ah!” she said, her face lighting up. ”You were merely deceiving me by appearing to be obtuse?”

”Of course,” said I. ”I see the whole thing in a nutsh.e.l.l. You married an adventurer; he told you who he was, but you've never been able to prove it; and suddenly you are deserted by him, and on going over his wardrobe you find he has left nothing but these articles: and now you wish to sue him for a separation on the ground of desertion, and secure alimony if possible.”

It was a magnificent guess.

”That is it precisely,” said the lady. ”Except as to the extent of his 'leavings.' In addition to the things you have he gave my small brother a bra.s.s bugle and a tin sword.”

”We may need to see them later,” said I. ”At present I will do all I can for you on the evidence in hand. I have got my eye on a gentleman who wears silver-tinsel tights now, but I am afraid he is not the man we are after, because his hair is black, and, as far as I have been able to learn from his valet, he is utterly unacquainted with swan's-down.”

We separated again and I went to the club to think. Never in my life before had I had so baffling a case. As I sat in the cafe sipping a cocaine cobbler, who should walk in but Hamlet, strangely enough picking particles of swan's-down from his black doublet, which was literally covered with it.

”h.e.l.lo, Sherlock!” he said, drawing up a chair and sitting down beside me. ”What you up to?”

”Trying to make out where you have been,” I replied. ”I judge from the swan's-down on your doublet that you have been escorting Ophelia to the opera in the regulation cloak.”

”You're mistaken for once,” he laughed. ”I've been driving with Lohengrin. He's got a pair of swans that can do a mile in 2.10--but it makes them moult like the devil.”

”Pair of what?” I cried.

”Swans,” said Hamlet. ”He's an eccentric sort of a duffer, that Lohengrin. Afraid of horses, I fancy.”

”And so drives swans instead?” said I, incredulously.

”The same,” replied Hamlet. ”Do I look as if he drove squab?”

”He must be queer,” said I. ”I'd like to meet him. He'd make quite an addition to my collection of freaks.”