to us
that his brother and he were twins.

"This is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What is to be done?"

"The door must come down," he answered, and, springing against it, he
put all his weight upon the lock. It creaked and groaned, but did not
yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this time it
gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within Bartholomew
Sholto's chamber.

It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A double
line of glass-stoppered bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite the
door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen burners, test-tubes,
and retorts. In the corners stood carboys of acid in wicker baskets.
One of these appeared to leak or to have been broken, for a stream of
dark-colored liquid had trickled out from it, and the air was heavy
with a peculiarly pungent, tar-like odor. A set of steps stood at one
side of the room, in the midst of a litter of lath and plaster, and
above them there was an opening in the ceiling large enough for a man
to pass through. At the foot of the steps a long coil of rope was
thrown carelessly together.

By the table, in a wooden arm-chair, the master of the house was seated
all in a heap, with his head sunk upon his left shoulder, and that
ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. He was stiff and cold, and
had clearly been dead many hours. It seemed to me that not only his
features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the most
fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table there lay a peculiar
instrument,--a brown, close-grained stick, with a stone head like a
hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside it was a torn sheet
of note-paper with some words scrawled upon it. Holmes glanced at it,
and then handed it to me.

"You see," he said, with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

In the light of the lantern I read, with a thrill of horror, "The sign
of the four."

"In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked.

"It means murder," said he, stooping over the dead man. "Ah, I
expected it. Look here!" He pointed to what looked like a long, dark
thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear.

"It looks like a thorn," said I.

"It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful, for it is
poisoned."

I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from the skin
so readily that hardly any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of
blood showed where the puncture had