“Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be in church?”

“Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's, near King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a cab, but as there were two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did. When the cabman got down from the box and looked there was no one inside! The cabman said that he could not imagine what had become of him. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never heard anything about him since then.”

“It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated,” said Holmes.

“Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I should stay true; and that even if something happened to separate us, I should always remember my promise to him. It seemed strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a meaning to it.”

“Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some catastrophe has occurred to him?”

“Yes, sir. I believe that he has known about some danger. And then I think something has happened.”

“But you have no notion as to what it could have been?”

“None.”

“One more question. How did your mother take the matter?”

“She was angry, and said that I should never speak of the matter again.”

“And your father? Did you tell him?”

“Yes; and he seemed to agree with me that something had happened and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the church, and then leaving me? Mr. Hosmer didn't take my money. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me mad to think of it, and I can't sleep at night.” She began to cry heavily.

“I shall glance into the case for you,” said Holmes, rising, “and I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind concentrate on it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has vanished from your life.”

“Then you don't think I'll see him again?”

“I fear not.”

“Then what has happened to him?”

“You will leave that question in my hands. I should like a description of him and any letters of his which you can spare.”

“I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle,” said she. “Here is the slip and here are four letters from him.”

“Thank you. And your address?”

“No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell.”

“Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your father's place of business?”

“He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of Fenchurch Street.”

“Thank you. You have made your statement very clear. You will leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life.

“You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back.”

With all the silly hat and the unwise face, there was something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which made us respect her. She laid her papers upon the table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be needed.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upwards. Then he took down from the shelf the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue smoke clouds spinning up from him, and a look of real sadness in his face.

“Quite an interesting study, that maiden,” he observed. “I found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather a common one. However, there were one or two details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was most interesting.”

“You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to me,” I remarked.

“Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realise the importance of sleeves, the meaning of thumbnails, or the great issues that may hang from a bootlace. Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance? Describe it.”

“Well, she had a grey, broad straw hat, with a red feather. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and little black jet ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being quite wealthy in a simple, comfortable, easygoing way.”

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and laughed.

“Upon my word, Watson, you are doing very well. You have really done very well. It is true that you have missed everything important, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had purple plush upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. There was clearly a double line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table. The sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm. I then glanced at her face, and, observing the trace of glasses on her nose, I made a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her.”

“It surprised me.”

“But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were mismatched; One of them had a slightly decorated toecap, and the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry.”

“And what else?” I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my friend's thoughtful reasoning.

“I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?”

I held the little printed slip to the light.

“Missing,” it said, “on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About five feet seven inches in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the centre, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing-”

“That will do,” said Holmes. “As to the letters,” he continued, glancing over them, “they are very ordinary. Absolutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you.”

“They are typewritten,” I remarked.

“Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The point about the signature is very interesting-in fact, we may call it conclusive.”

“Of what?”

“My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it is important for the case?”

“I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to deny his signature in case he got caught.”

“No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters, which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could meet us here at six o'clock tomorrow evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for a while.”

I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's powers of reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must have some solid grounds for the the way in which he treated the singular mystery. I had known him to fail only once, in the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary circumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would be a rare case indeed which he could not solve.

I left him then, still sitting with his black clay pipe, with the sense that when I came again on the next evening I would find that he got all the clues which would lead to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.

I spent the next day beside the bed of my patient, whose suffering was great. It was about six o'clock that I found myself free and could drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the solving of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep in his armchair. A huge set of bottles and test-tubes, with the strong cleanly smell of chemichals, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.

“Well, have you solved it?” I asked as I entered.

“Yes. A chemical substance it was.”

“No, no, the mystery!” I cried.

“Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some details are interesting. The only problem is that there is no law, that can touch that awful man.”

“Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss Sutherland?”

The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall and a tap at the door.

“This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!”

The man who entered was a strong, middle-sized fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-shaven, with yellow skin, with a gently, polite manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and sat down into the nearest chair.

“Good evening, Mr. James Windibank,” said Holmes. “I think that this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with me for six o'clock?”

“Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to discuss it with anyone. It was quite against my wishes that she came, but she is a very impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes quietly; “I have every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel.”

Mr. Windibank was quite surprised and dropped his gloves. “I am delighted to hear it,” he said.

“It is a curious thing,” remarked Holmes, “that a typewriter has really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. I think of writing another little monograph on the typewriter and its relation to crime. Unless they are quite new, there is always a difference between them. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some little slurring over of the e, and a slight defect in the tail of the r. There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more obvious.”

“We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no doubt it has got some defects,” our visitor answered, glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.