The Complete Short Stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated Edition). Arthur Conan Doyle

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СКАЧАТЬ was also aware of that,” murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his arm-chair and closing his eyes.

      Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client.

      “If your Majesty would condescend to state your case,” he remarked, “I should be better able to advise you.”

      The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. “You are right,” he cried; “I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?”

      “Why, indeed?” murmured Holmes. “Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia.”

      “But you can understand,” said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high, white forehead, “you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you.”

      “Then, pray consult,” said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

      “The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you.”

      “Kindly look her up in my index, doctor,” murmured Holmes, without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew Rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.

      “Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—Yes! Retired from operatic stage—ha! Living in London—quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back.”

      “Precisely so. But how—”

      “Was there a secret marriage?”

      “None.”

      “No legal papers or certificates?”

      “None.”

      “Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?”

      “There is the writing.”

      “Pooh, pooh! Forgery.”

      “My private note-paper.”

      “Stolen.”

      “My own seal.”

      “Imitated.”

      “My photograph.”

      “Bought.”

      “We were both in the photograph.”

      “Oh dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion.”

      “I was mad—insane.”

      “You have compromised yourself seriously.”

      “I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now.”

      “It must be recovered.”

      “We have tried and failed.”

      “Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought.”

      “She will not sell.”

      “Stolen, then.”

      “Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been waylaid. There has been no result.”

      “No sign of it?”

      “Absolutely none.”

      Holmes laughed. “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he.

      “But a very serious one to me,” returned the King, reproachfully.

      “Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?”

      “To ruin me.”

      “But how?”

      “I am about to be married.”

      “So I have heard.”

      “To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end.”

      “And Irene Adler?”

      “Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go—none.”

      “You are sure that she has not sent it yet?”

      “I am sure.”

      “And why?”

      “Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday.”

      “Oh, then, we have three days yet,” said Holmes, with a yawn. “That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the present?”

      “Certainly. You will find me at the Langham, under the name of the Count Von Kramm.”

      “Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress.”

      “Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety.”

      “Then, as to money?”

      “You have carte blanche.”

      “Absolutely?”

      “I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph.”

      “And for present expenses?”

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