The Adventure of the Masked Detective

It is with deep regret and sorrow that I take up my pen to record the particular incidents of this case. I would like very much to forget them, for they have caused me much pain, but I feel that my readers should like to know of the terrible events that have taken place.

It was upon the nineteenth of January, 1919, that I received a message from my old friend, Sherlock Holmes. He had long been retired as a bee-farmer residing in his quarters at Sussex Downs and I had not seen him in some time. I was just preparing to go to bed that evening when the delivery-boy delivered to me the message. It ran thus:

Watson:

An incident of urgent attention has come up. Come at once.

S. H.

Tired though I was, for I had seen many patients that day, I informed my wife that my old friend required my presence and asked if she might want to come along. She insisted that I go at once and declined my invitation. I packed my things and took the 10.35 to the station in Sussex. From there I took a cab to his quarters.

"Well, Holmes?" I asked.

"Ah, dear Watson!" he said. "Well, well. It seems a pity, but I have done what I could."

"Whatever is the matter?"

"Watson," he said, as he reclined in his arm-chair. "Have you any recollection of The Adventure of the Final Problem? I seem to remember that you recorded it."

"Yes, I know it," I said.

"The late Professor Moriarty met his terrible fate on that day. Conversely, two people have reported sighting him—one three days ago and the other yesterday. A very singular problem indeed."

His revelation seemed to me extraordinary, however impossible. I expressed my thoughts to him, to which he replied: "My old saying runs thus: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

"But we have not yet eliminated the impossible!" I cried.

"True, Watson. I suppose that you think it is fundamentally impossible that Professor Moriarty is alive. Let us suppose that you are accurate in you assumption. Therefore, what is the only other option?"

"That another individual has learned of the story and by some motive is impersonating him."

"Good, Watson. But let us now ask the question: How did our impersonator come to know of him?"

I aspired to think that he had read of my account of it; but my modesty refrained me from doing so and so I answered the question with an unpretentious "Why, I don't have any idea."

"Furthermore, how did our two identifiers come to know of his appearance? The descriptions in your narrative certainly could not cause a person to know him by sight."

I was forced to admit that I was baffled and could see no possible conclusion. "Well, what are you proposing to do?" I asked.

Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "A trap, Watson. A lure. We must lure him here—like a fish to its bait. Sooner or later we will have our Moriarty-fish and—well, well. Hullo! I believe we have a visitor, Watson."

A middle-aged man had rushed into the little sitting-room. He was of average height, and his dark brown eyes darted about the room, as if he was nervous. In his strong hands he held a brown felt hat very tightly. His shiny boots were brand new save for a spot of mud on one side, but his clothes were near tatters. "Mr. Holmes?" he said.