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Title: The Garotters

Author: William D. Howells

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It was nine o'clock at night upon the second of August-
the most terrible August in the history of the world.

One might have thought already that God's curse hung heavy over a degenerate world,
for there was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy in the sultry and stagnant air.

The sun had long set,
but one blood-red gash like an open wound lay low in the distant west.

Above,
the stars were shining brightly,
and below,
the lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay.

The two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the garden walk,
with the long,
low,
heavily gabled house behind them,
and they looked down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the great chalk cliff in which Von Bork,
like some wandering eagle,
had perched himself four years before.

They stood
with their heads close together,
talking in low,
confidential tones.

From below the two glowing ends of their cigars might have been the smouldering eyes of some malignant fiend looking down in the darkness.

A remarkable man this Von Bork--a man who could hardly be matched among all the devoted agents of the Kaiser.

It was his talents which had first recommended him
for the English mission,
the most important mission of all,
but since he had taken it over those talents had become more and more manifest
to the half-dozen people in the world who were really in touch
with the truth.

One of these was his present companion,
Baron Von Herling,
the chief secretary of the legation,
whose huge 100-horse-power Benz car was blocking the country lane as it waited
to waft its owner back
to London.

"So far as I can judge the trend of events,
you will probably be back in Berlin within the week,"
the secretary was saying.

"When you get there,
my dear Von Bork,
I think you will be surprised at the welcome you will receive.

I happen
to know what is thought in the highest quarters of your work in this country."

He was a huge man,
the secretary,
deep,
broad,
and tall,
with a slow,
heavy fashion of speech which had been his main asset in his political career.

Von Bork laughed.

"They are not very hard
to deceive,"
he remarked.

"A more docile,
simple folk could not be imagined."

"I don't know about that,"
said the other thoughtfully.

"They have strange limits and one must learn
to observe them.

It is that surface simplicity of theirs which makes a trap
for the stranger.

One's first impression is that they are entirely soft.

Then one comes suddenly upon something very hard,
and you know that you have reached the limit and must adapt yourself
to the fact.

They have,
for example,
their insular conventions which simply MUST be observed."

"Meaning
'good form'
and that sort of thing?"
Von Bork sighed as one who had suffered much.

"Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations.

As an example I may quote one of my own worst blunders--I can afford
to talk of my blunders,
for you know my work well enough
to be aware of my successes.

It was on my first arrival.

I was invited
to a week-end gathering at the country house of a cabinet minister.

The conversation was amazingly indiscreet."

Von Bork nodded.

"I've been there,"
said he dryly.

"Exactly.

Well,
I naturally sent a resume of the information
to Berlin.

Unfortunately our good chancellor is a little heavy- handed in these matters,
and he transmitted a remark which showed that he was aware of what had been said.

This,
of course,
took the trail straight up
to me.

You've no idea the harm that it did me.

There was nothing soft about our British hosts on that occasion,
I can assure you.

I was two years living it down.

Now you,
with this sporting pose of yours--"
"No,
no,
don't call it a pose.

A pose is an artificial thing.

This is quite natural.

I am a born sportsman.

I enjoy it."

"Well,
that makes it the more effective.

You yacht against them,
you hunt
with them,
you play polo,
you match them in every game,
your four-in-hand takes the prize at Olympia.

I have even heard that you go the length of boxing
with the young officers.

What is the result?

Nobody takes you seriously.

You are a
'good old sport'
'quite a decent fellow
for a German,'
a hard-drinking,
night-club,
knock-about-town,
devil-may-care young fellow.

And all the time this quiet country house of yours is the centre of half the mischief in England,
and the sporting squire the most astute secret-service man in Europe.

Genius,
my dear Von Bork-- genius!"
"You flatter me,
Baron.

But certainly I may claim my four years in this country have not been unproductive.

I've never shown you my little store.

Would you mind stepping in
for a moment?"
The door of the study opened straight on
to the terrace.

Von Bork pushed it back,
and,
leading the way,
he clicked the switch of the electric light.

He then closed the door behind the bulky form which followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain over the latticed window.

Only when all these precautions had been taken and tested did he turn his sunburned aquiline face
to his guest.

"Some of my papers have gone,"
said he.

"When my wife and the household left yesterday
for Flushing they took the less important
with them.

I must,
of course,
claim the protection of the embassy
for the others."

"Your name has already been files as one of the personal suite.

There will be no difficulties
for you or your baggage.

Of course,
it is just possible that we may not have
to go.

England may leave France
to her fate.

We are sure that there is no binding treaty between them."

"And Belgium?"
"Yes,
and Belgium,
too."

Von Bork shook his head.

"I don't see how that could be.

There is a definite treaty there.

She could never recover from such a humiliation."

"She would at least have peace
for the moment."

"But her honor?"
"Tut,
my dear sir,
we live in a utilitarian age.

Honour is a mediaeval conception.

Besides England is not ready.

It is an inconceivable thing,
but even our special war tax of fifty million,
which one would think made our purpose as clear as if we had advertised it on the front page of the Times,
has not roused these people from their slumbers.

Here and there one hears a question.

It is my business
to find an answer.

Here and there also there is an irritation.

It is my business
to soothe it.

But I can assure you that so far as the essentials go--the storage of munitions,
the preparation
for submarine attack,
the arrangements
for making high explosives--nothing is prepared.

How,
then,
can England come in,
especially when we have stirred he up such a devil's brew of Irish civil war,
window-breaking Furies,
and God knows what
to keep her thoughts at home."

"She must think of her future."

"Ah,
that is another matter.

I fancy that in the future we have our own very definite plans about England,
and that your information will be very vital
to us.

It is to-day or to-morrow
with Mr. John Bull.

If he prefers to-day we are perfectly ready.

If it is to-morrow we shall be more ready still.

I should think they would be wiser
to fight
with allies than without them,
but that is their own affair.

This week is their week of destiny.

But you were speaking of your papers."

He sat in the armchair
with the light shining upon his broad bald head,
while he puffed sedately at his cigar.

The large oak-panelled,
book-lined room had a curtain hung in the future corner.

When this was drawn it disclosed a large,
brass- bound safe.

Von Bork detached a small key from his watch chain,
and after some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open the heavy door.

"Look!"
said he,
standing clear,
with a wave of his hand.

The light shone vividly into the opened safe,
and the secretary of the embassy gazed
with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed pigeon-holes
with which it was furnished.

Each pigeon- hole had its label,
and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series of such titles as
"Fords,"
"Harbour-defences,"
"Aeroplanes,"
"Ireland,",
"Egypt,"
"Portsmouth forts,"
"The Channel,"
"Rosythe,"
and a score of others.

Each compartment was bristling
with papers and plans.

"Colossal!"
said the secretary.

Putting down his cigar he softly clapped his fat hands.

"And all in four years,
Baron.

Not such a bad show
for the hard- drinking,
hard-riding country squire.

But the gem of my collection is coming and there is the setting all ready
for it."

He pointed
to a space over which
"Naval Signals"
was printed.

"But you have a good dossier there already."

"Out of date and waste paper.

The Admiralty in some way got the alarm and every code has been changed.

It was a blow,
Baron--the worst setback in my whole campaign.

But thanks
to my check-book and the good Altamont all will be well to-night."

The Baron looked at his watch and gave a guttural exclamation of disappointment.

"Well,
I really can wait no longer.

You can imagine that things are moving at present in Carlton Terrace and that we have all
to be at our posts.

I had hoped
to be able
to bring news of your great coup.

Did Altamont name no hour?"
Von Bork pushed over a telegram.

Will come without fail to-night and bring new sparking plugs.

Altamont.

"Sparking plugs,
eh?"
"You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage.

In our code everything likely
to come up is named after some spare part.

If he talks of a radiator it is a battleship,
of an oil pump a cruiser,
and so on.

Sparking plugs are naval signals."

"From Portsmouth at midday,"
said the secretary,
examining the superscription.

"By the way,
what do you give him?"
"Five hundred pounds
for this particular job.

Of course he has a salary as well."

"The greedy rouge.

They are useful,
these traitors,
but I grudge them their blood money."

"I grudge Altamont nothing.

He is a wonderful worker.

If I pay him well,
at least he delivers the goods,
to use his own phrase.

Besides he is not a traitor.

I assure you that our most pan- Germanic Junker is a sucking dove in his feelings towards England as compared
with a real bitter Irish-American."

"Oh,
an Irish-American?"
"If you heard him talk you would not doubt it.

Sometimes I assure you I can hardly understand him.

He seems
to have declared war on the King's English as well as on the English king.

Must you really go?

He may be here any moment."

"No.

I'm sorry,
but I have already overstayed my time.

We shall expect you early to-morrow,
and when you get that signal book through the little door on the Duke of York's steps you can put a triumphant finis
to your record in England.

What! Tokay!"
He indicated a heavily sealed dust-covered bottle which stood
with two high glasses upon a salver.

"May I offer you a glass before your journey?"
"No,
thanks.

But it looks like revelry."

"Altamont has a nice taste in wines,
and he took a fancy
to my Tokay.

He is a touchy fellow and needs humouring in small things.

I have
to study him,
I assure you."

They had strolled out on
to the terrace again,
and along it
to the further end where at a touch from the Baron's chauffeur the great car shivered and chuckled.

"Those are the lights of Harwich,
I suppose,"
said the secretary,
pulling on his dust coat.

"How still and peaceful it all seeMs. There may be other lights within the week,
and the English coast a less tranquil place! The heavens,
too,
may not be quite so peaceful if all that the good Zepplin promises us comes true.

By the way,
who is that?"
Only one window showed a light behind them;
in it there stood a lamp,
and beside it,
seated at a table,
was a dear old ruddy- faced woman in a country cap.

She was bending over her knitting and stopping occasionally
to stroke a large black cat upon a stool beside her.

"That is Martha,
the only servant I have left."

The secretary chuckled.

"She might almost personify Britannia,"
said he,
"with her complete self-absorption and general air of comfortable somnolence.

Well,
au revoir,
Von Bork!"
With a final wave of his hand he sprang into the car,
and a moment later the two golden cones from the headlights shot through the darkness.

The secretary lay back in the cushions of the luxurious limousine,
with his thoughts so full of the impending European tragedy that he hardly observed that as his car swung round the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford coming in the opposite direction.

Von Bork walked slowly back
to the study when the last gleams of the motor lamps had faded into the distance.

As he passed he observed that his old housekeeper had put out her lamp and retired.

It was a new experience
to him,
the silence and darkness of his widespread house,
for his family and household had been a large one.

It was a relief
to him,
however,
to think that they were all in safety and that,
but
for that one old woman who had lingered in the kitchen,
he had the whole place
to himself.

There was a good deal of tidying up
to do inside his study and he set himself
to do it until his keen,
handsome face was flushed
with the heat of the burning papers.

A leather valise stood beside his table,
and into this he began
to pack very neatly and systematically the precious contents of his safe.

He had hardly got started
with the work,
however,
when his quick ears caught the sounds of a distant car.

Instantly he gave an exclamation of satisfaction,
strapped up the valise,
shut the safe,
locked it,
and hurried out on
to the terrace.

He was just in time
to see the lights of a small car come
to a halt at the gate.

A passenger sprang out of it and advanced swiftly towards him,
while the chauffeur,
a heavily built,
elderly man
with a gray moustache,
settled down like one who resigns himself
to a long vigil.

"Well?"
asked Von Bork eagerly,
running forward
to meet his visitor.

For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel triumphantly above his head.

"You can give me the glad hand to-night,
mister,"
he cried.

"I'm bringing home the bacon at last."

"The signals?"
"Same as I said in my cable.

Every last one of them,
semaphore,
lamp code,
Marconi--a copy,
mind you,
not the original.

That was too dangerous.

But it's the real goods,
and you can lay
to that."

He slapped the German upon the shoulder
with a rough familiarity from which the other winced.

"Come in,"
he said.

"I'm all alone in the house.

I was only waiting
for this.

Of course a copy is better than the original.

If an original were missing they would change the whole thing.

You think it's all safe about the copy?"
The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long limbs from the armchair.

He was a tall,
gaunt man of sixty,
with clear-cut features and a small goatee beard which gave him a general resemblance
to the caricatures of Uncle Sam.

A half- smoked,
sodden cigar hung from the corner of his mouth,
and as he sat down he struck a match and relit it.

"Making ready
for a move?"
he remarked as he looked round him.

"Say,
mister,"
he added,
as his eyes fell upon the safe from which the curtain was now removed,
"you don't tell me you keep your papers in that?"
"Why not?"
"Gosh,
in a wide-open contraption like that! And they reckon you
to be some spy.

Why,
a Yankee crook would be into that
with a can-opener.

If I'd known that any letter of mine was goin'
to lie loose in a thing like that I'd have been a mug
to write
to you at all."

"It would puzzle any crook
to force that safe,"
Von Bork answered.

"You won't cut that metal
with any tool."

"But the lock?"
"No,
it's a double combination lock.

You know what that is?"
"Search me,"
said the American.

"Well,
you need a word as well as a set of figures before you can get the lock
to work."

He rose and showed a double-radiating disc round the keyhole.

"This outer one is
for the letters,
the inner one
for the figures."

"Well,
well,
that's fine."

"So it's nit quite as simple as you thought.

It was four years ago that I had it made,
and what do you think I chose
for the word and figures?"
"It's beyond me."

"Well,
I chose August
for the word,
and 1914
for the figures,
and here we are."

The American's face showed his surprise and admiration.

"My,
but that was smart! You had it down
to a fine thing."

"Yes,
a few of us even then could have guessed the date.

Here it is ,
and I'm shutting down to-morrow morning."

"Well,
I guess you'll have
to fix me up also.

I'm not staying is this gol-darned country all on my lonesome.

In a week or less,
from what I see,
John Bull will be on his hind legs and fair ramping.

I'd rather watch him from over the water."

"But you're an American citizen?"
"Well,
so was Jack James an American citizen,
but he's doing time in Portland all the same.

It cuts no ice
with a British copper
to tell him you're an American citizen.

'It's British law and order over here,'
says he.

By the way,
mister,
talking of Jack James,
it seems
to me you don't do much
to cover your men."

"What do you mean?"
Von Bork asked sharply.

"Well,
you are their employer,
ain't you?

It's up
to you
to see that they don't fall down.

But they do fall down,
and when did you ever pick them up?

There's James--"
"It was James's own fault.

You know that yourself.

He was too self-willed
for the job."

"James was a bonehead--I give you that.

Then there was Hollis."

"The man was mad."

"Well,
he went a bit woozy towards the end.

It's enough
to make a man bug-house when he has
to play a part from morning
to night
with a hundred guys all ready
to set the coppers wise
to him.

But now there is Steiner--"
Von Bork started violently,
and his ruddy face turned a shade paler.

"What about Steiner?"
"Well,
they've got him,
that's all.

They raided his store last night,
and he and his papers are all in Portsmouth jail.

You'll go off and he,
poor devil,
will have
to stand the racket,
and lucky if he gets off
with his life.

That's why I want
to get over the water as soon as you do."

Von Bork was a strong,
self-contained man,
but it was easy
to see that the news had shaken him.

"How could they have got on
to Steiner?"
he muttered.

"That's the worst blow yet."

"Well,
you nearly had a worse one,
for I believe they are not far off me."

"You don't mean that!"
"Sure thing.

My landlady down Fratton way had some inquiries,
and when I heard of it I guessed it was time
for me
to hustle.

But what I want
to know,
mister,
is how the coppers know these things?

Steiner is the fifth man you've lost since I signed on
with you,
and I know the name of the sixth if I don't get a move on.

How do you explain it,
and ain't you ashamed
to see your men go down like this?"
Von Bork flushed crimson.

"How dare you speak in such a way!"
"If I didn't dare things,
mister,
I wouldn't be in your service.

But I'll tell you straight what is in my mind.

I've heard that
with you German politicians when an agent has done his work you are not sorry
to see him put away."

Von Bork sprang
to his feet.

"Do you dare
to suggest that I have given away my own agents!"
"I don't stand
for that,
mister,
but there's a stool pigeon or a cross somewhere,
and it's up
to you
to find out where it is.

Anyhow I am taking no more chances.

It's me
for little Holland,
and the sooner the better."

Von Bork had mastered his anger.

"We have been allies too long
to quarrel now at the very hour of victory,"
he said.

"You've done splendid work and taken risks,
and I can't forget it.

By all means go
to Holland,
and you can get a boat from Rotterdam
to New York.

No other line will be safe a week from now.

I'll take that book and pack it
with the rest."

The American held the small parcel in his hand,
but made no motion
to give it up.

"What about the dough?"
he asked.

"The what?"
"The boodle.

The reward.

The 500 pounds.

The gunner turned damned nasty at the last,
and I had
to square him
with an extra hundred dollars or it would have been nitsky
for you and me.

'Nothin'
doin'!'
says he,
and he meant it,
too,
but the last hundred did it.

It's cost me two hundred pound from first
to last,
so it isn't likely I'd give it up without gettin'
my wad."

Von Bork smiled
with some bitterness.

"You don't seem
to have a very high opinion of my honour,"
said he,
"you want the money before you give up the book."

"Well,
mister,
it is a business proposition."

"All right.

Have your way."

He sat down at the table and scribbled a check,
which he tore from the book,
but he refrained from handing it
to his companion.

"After all,
since we are
to be on such terms,
Mr. Altamont,"
said he,
"I don't see why I should trust you any more than you trust me.

Do you understand?"
he added,
looking back over his shoulder at the American.

"There's the check upon the table.

I claim the right
to examine that parcel before you pick the money up."

The American passed it over without a word.

Von Bork undid a winding of string and two wrappers of paper.

Then he sat dazing
for a moment in silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him.

Across the cover was printed in golden letters Practical Handbook of Bee Culture.

Only
for one instant did the master spy glare at this strangely irrelevant inscription.

The next he was gripped at the back of his neck by a grasp of iron,
and a chloroformed sponge was held in front of his writhing face.

"Another glass,
Watson!"
said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the bottle of Imperial Tokay.

The thickset chauffeur,
who had seated himself by the table,
pushed forward his glass
with some eagerness.

"It is a good wine,
Holmes."

"A remarkable wine,
Watson.

Our friend upon the sofa has assured me that it is from Franz Josef's special cellar at the Schoenbrunn Palace.

Might I trouble you
to open the window,
for chloroform vapour does not help the palate."

The safe was ajar,
and Holmes standing in front of it was removing dossier after dossier,
swiftly examining each,
and then packing it neatly in Von Bork's valise.

The German lay upon the sofa sleeping stertorously
with a strap round his upper arms and another round his legs.

"We need not hurry ourselves,
Watson.

We are safe from interruption.

Would you mind touching the bell?

There is no one in the house except old Martha,
who has played her part
to admiration.

I got her the situation here when first I took the matter up.

Ah,
Martha,
you will be glad
to hear that all is well."

The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway.

She curtseyed
with a smile
to Mr. Holmes,
but glanced
with some apprehension at the figure upon the sofa.

"It is all right,
Martha.

He has not been hurt at all."

"I am glad of that,
Mr. Holmes.

According
to his lights he has been a kind master.

He wanted me
to go
with his wife
to Germany yesterday,
but that would hardly have suited your plans,
would it,
sir?"
"No,
indeed,
Martha.

So long as you were here I was easy in my mind.

We waited some time
for your signal to-night."

"It was the secretary,
sir."

"I know.

His car passed ours."

"I thought he would never go.

I knew that it would not suit your plans,
sir,
to find him here."

"No,
indeed.

Well,
it only meant that we waited half an hour or so until I saw your lamp go out and knew that the coast was clear.

You can report
to me to-morrow in London,
Martha,
at Claridge's Hotel."

"Very good,
sir."

"I suppose you have everything ready
to leave."

"Yes,
sir.

He posted seven letters to-day.

I have the addresses as usual."

"Very good,
Martha.

I will look into them to-morrow.

Good- night.

These papers,"
he continued as the old lady vanished,
"are not of very great importance,
for,
of course,
the information which they represent has been sent off long ago
to the German government.

These are the originals which cold not safely be got out of the country."

"Then they are of no use."

"I should not go so far as
to say that,
Watson.

They will at least show our people what is known and what is not.

I may say that a good many of these papers have come through me,
and I need not add are thoroughly untrustworthy.

It would brighten my declining years
to see a German cruiser navigating the Solent according
to the mine-field plans which I have furnished.

But you,
Watson"--he stopped his work and took his old friend by the shoulders--"I've hardly seen you in the light yet.

How have the years used you?

You look the same blithe boy as ever."

"I feel twenty years younger,
Holmes.

I have seldom felt so happy as when I got your wire asking me
to meet you at Harwich
with the car.

But you,
Holmes--you have changed very little-- save
for that horrible goatee."

"These are the sacrifices one makes
for one's country,
Watson,"
said Holmes,
pulling at his little tuft.

"To-morrow it will be but a dreadful memory.

With my hair cut and a few other superficial changes I shall no doubt reappear at Claridge's to- morrow as I was before this American stunt--I beg your pardon,
Watson,
my well of English seems
to be permanently defiled-- before this American job came my way."

"But you have retired,
Holmes.

We heard of you as living the life of a hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the South Downs."

"Exactly,
Watson.

Here is the fruit of my leisured ease,
the magnum opus of my latter years!"
He picked up the volume from the table and read out the whole title,
Practical Handbook of Bee Culture,
with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen.

"Alone I did it.

Behold the fruit of pensive nights and laborious days when I watched the little working gangs as once I watched the criminal world of London."

"But how did you get
to work again?"
"Ah,
I have often marvelled at it myself.

The Foreign Minister alone I could have withstood,
but when the Premier also deigned
to visit my humble roof--! The fact is,
Watson,
that this gentleman upon the sofa was a bit too good
for our people.

He was in a class by himself.

Things were going wrong,
and no one could understand why they were going wrong.

Agents were suspected or even caught,
but there was evidence of some strong and secret central force.

It was absolutely necessary
to expose it.

Strong pressure was brought upon me
to look into the matter.

It has cost me two years,
Watson,
but they have not been devoid of excitement.

When I say that I started my pilgrimage at Chicago,
graduated in an Irish secret society at Buffalo,
gave serious trouble
to the constabulary at Skibbareen,
and so eventually caught the eye of a subordinate agent of Von Bork,
who recommended me as a likely man,
you will realize that the matter was complex.

Since then I have been honoured by his confidence,
which has not prevented most of his plans going subtly wrong and five of his best agents being in prison.

I watched them,
Watson,
and I picked them as they ripened.

Well,
sir,
I hope that you are none the worse!"
The last remark was addressed
to Von Bork himself,
who after much gasping and blinking had lain quietly listening
to Holmes's statement.

He broke out now into a furious stream of German invective,
his face convulsed
with passion.

Holmes continued his swift investigation of documents while his prisoner cursed and swore.

"Though unmusical,
German is the most expressive of all languages,"
he observed when Von Bork had stopped from pure exhaustion.

"Hullo! Hullo!"
he added as he looked hard at the corner of a tracing before putting it in the box.

"This should put another bird in the cage.

I had no idea that the paymaster was such a rascal,
though I have long had an eye upon him.

Mister Von Bork,
you have a great deal
to answer for."

The prisoner had raised himself
with some difficulty upon the sofa and was staring
with a strange mixture of amazement and hatred at his captor.

"I shall get level
with you,
Altamont,"
he said,
speaking
with slow deliberation.

"If it takes me all my life I shall get level
with you!"
"The old sweet song,"
said Holmes.

"How often have I heard it in days gone by.

It was a favorite ditty of the late lamented Professor Moriarty.

Colonel Sebastian Moran has also been known
to warble it.

And yet I live and keep bees upon the South Downs."

"Curse you,
you double traitor!"
cried the German,
straining against his bonds and glaring murder from his furious eyes.

"No,
no,
it is not so bad as that,"
said Holmes,
smiling.

"As my speech surely shows you,
Mr. Altamont of Chicago had no existence in fact.

I used him and he is gone."

"Then who are you?"
"It is really immaterial who I am,
but since the matter seems
to interest you,
Mr. Von Bork,
I may say that this is not my first acquaintance
with the members of your family.

I have done a good deal of business in Germany in the past and my name is probably familiar
to you."

"I would wish
to know it,"
said the Prussian grimly.

"It was I who brought about the separation between Irene Adler and the late King of Bohemia when your cousin Heinrich was the Imperial Envoy.

It was I also who saved from murder,
by the Nihilist Klopman,
Count Von und Zu Grafenstein,
who was your mother's elder brother.

It was I--"
Von Bork sat up in amazement.

"There is only one man,"
he cried.

"Exactly,"
said Holmes.

Von Bork groaned and sank back on the sofa.

"And most of that information came through you,"
he cried.

"What is it worth?

What have I done?

It is my ruin forever!"
"It is certainly a little untrustworthy,"
said Holmes.

"It will require some checking and you have little time
to check it.

Your admiral may find the new guns rather larger than he expects,
and the cruisers perhaps a trifle faster."

Von Bork clutched at his own throat in despair.

"There are a good many other points of detail which will,
no doubt,
come
to light in good time.

But you have one quality which is very rare in a German,
Mr. Von Bork:

you are a sportsman and you will bear me no ill-will when you realize that you,
who have outwitted so many other people,
have at last been outwitted yourself.

After all,
you have done your best
for your country,
and I have done my best
for mine,
and what could be more natural?

Besides,"
he added,
not unkindly,
as he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the prostrate man,
"it is better than
to fall before some ignoble foe.

These papers are now ready,
Watson.

If you will help me
with our prisoner,
I think that we may get started
for London at once."

It was no easy task
to move Von Bork,
for he was a strong and a desperate man.

Finally,
holding either arm,
the two friends walked him very slowly down the garden walk which he had trod
with such proud confidence when he received the congratulations of the famous diplomatist only a few hours before.

After a short,
final struggle he was hoisted,
still bound hand and foot,
into the spare seat of the little car.

His precious valise was wedged in beside him.

"I trust that you are as comfortable as circumstances permit,"
said Holmes when the final arrangements were made.

"Should I be guilty of a liberty if I lit a cigar and placed it between your lips?"
But all amenities were wasted upon the angry German.

"I suppose you realize,
Mr. Sherlock Holmes,"
said he,
"that if your government bears you out in this treatment it becomes an act of war."

"What about your government and all this treatment?"
said Holmes,
tapping the valise.

"You are a private individual.

You have no warrant
for my arrest.

The whole proceeding is absolutely illegal and outrageous."

"Absolutely,"
said Holmes.

"Kidnapping a German subject."

"And stealing his private papers."

"Well,
you realize your position,
you and your accomplice here.

If I were
to shout
for help as we pass through the village--"
"My dear sir,
if you did anything so foolish you would probably enlarge the two limited titles of our village inns by giving us
'The Dangling Prussian'
as a signpost.

The Englishman is a patient creature,
but at present his temper is a little inflamed,
and it would be as well not
to try him too far.

No,
Mr. Von Bork,
you will go
with us in a quiet,
sensible fashion
to Scotland Yard,
whence you can send
for your friend,
Baron Von Herling,
and see if even now you may not fill that place which he has reserved
for you in the ambassadorial suite.

As
to you,
Watson,
you are joining us
with your old service,
as I understand,
so London won't be out of your way.

Stand
with me here upon the terrace,
for it may be the last quiet talk that we shall ever have."

The two friends chatted in intimate converse
for a few minutes,
recalling once again the days of the past,
while their prisoner vainly wriggled
to undo the bonds that held him.

As they turned
to the car Holmes pointed back
to the moonlit sea and shook a thoughtful head.

"There's an east wind coming,
Watson."

"I think not,
Holmes.

It is very warm."

"Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age.

There's an east wind coming all the same,
such a wind as never blew on England yet.

It will be cold and bitter,
Watson,
and a good many of us may wither before its blast.

But it's God's own wind none the less,
and a cleaner,
better,
stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared.

Start her up,
Watson,
for it's time that we were on our way.

I have a check
for five hundred pounds which should be cashed early,
for the drawer is quite capable of stopping it if he can."

End of Project Gutenberg Etext His Last Bow,
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle