THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in

the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a
very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an
apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes
pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.
“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear
Watson,” he said cordially.
“I was afraid that you were engaged.”
“So I am. Very much so.”
“Then I can wait in the next room.”
“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner
and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt
that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”
The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of
greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-en-
circled eyes.
“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and
putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial
moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is
bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday
life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has
prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so,
somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures.”
“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I
observed.
“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before
we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Suther-
land, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must
go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the
imagination.”
“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”
“You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my
view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until
your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be
right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon
me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of
the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have
heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very of-
ten connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and oc-
casionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive
crime has been committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for
me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but
the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have
ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kind-
ness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my
friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the
peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible
detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indica-
tion of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thou-
sands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present
instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my be -
lief, unique.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of
some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the
inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement
column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon
his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the
fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be pre-
sented by his dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visi-
tor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British trades-
man, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shep-
herd’s check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in
the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a
square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed
top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay
upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was noth-
ing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the ex-
pression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.
Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, and he
shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances.
“Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual
labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in

2
China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I
can deduce nothing else.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger
upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.
“How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr.
Holmes?” he asked. “How did you know, for example, that I did man-
ual labour. It’s as true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.”
“Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger
than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more de-
veloped.”
“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?”
“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that,
especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an
arc-and-compass breastpin.”
“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?”
“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for
five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow
where you rest it upon the desk?”
“Well, but China?”
“The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right
wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study
of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the sub-
ject. That trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate pink is quite
peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging
from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple.”
Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I never!” said he. “I
thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there
was nothing in it after all.”
“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I make a mistake
in explaining. ‘Omne ignotum pro magnifico,’ you know, and my poor
little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid.
Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?”
“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered with his thick red finger
planted halfway down the column. “Here it is. This is what began it
all. You just read it for yourself, sir.”
I took the paper from him and read as follows:
“TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the be-
quest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S.

3
A., there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the
League to a salary of £4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-
headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age of
twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven
o’clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court,
Fleet Street.”
“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated after I had twice
read over the extraordinary announcement.
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit
when in high spirits. “It is a little off the beaten track, isn’t it?” said
he. “And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about
yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had
upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper
and the date.”
“It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two
months ago.”
“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?”
“Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; “I have a small
pawnbroker’s business at Coburg Square, near the City. It’s not a very
large affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a
living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep
one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come
for half wages so as to learn the business.”
“What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked Sherlock
Holmes.
“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such a youth, ei-
ther. It’s hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr.
Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself and earn
twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why
should I put ideas in his head?”
“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employé
who comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience
among employers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is not as
remarkable as your advertisement.”
“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. “Never was such a
fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought
to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a

4
rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but
on the whole he’s a good worker. There’s no vice in him.”
“He is still with you, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple
cooking and keeps the place clean – that’s all I have in the house, for I
am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the
three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if
we do nothing more.
“The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spauld-
ing, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this
very paper in his hand, and he says:
“I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.”
“Why that?” I asks.
“Why,” says he, “here’s another vacancy on the League of the
Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets
it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men,
so that the trustees are at their wits’ end what to do with the money. If
my hair would only change colour, here’s a nice little crib all ready for
me to step into.”
“Why, what is it, then?” I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a
very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my
having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot
over the door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much of what was going
on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.
“Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?”
he asked with his eyes open.
“Never.”
“Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of
the vacancies.”
“And what are they worth?” I asked.
“Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight,
and it need not interfere very much with one’s other occupations.”
“Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears,
for the business has not been over good for some years, and an extra
couple of hundred would have been very handy.
“Tell me all about it,” said I.
“Well,” said he, showing me the advertisement, “you can see
for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address

5
where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the
League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins,
who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he
had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was
found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees,
with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to
men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and
very little to do.”
“But,” said I, “there would be millions of red-headed men who
would apply.”
“Not so many as you might think,” he answered. “You see it is
really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had
started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old
town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying
if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blaz-
ing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just
walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put your-
self out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.”
“Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves,
that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that
if there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a
chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to
know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just
ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away
with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the busi-
ness up and started off for the address that was given us in the adver-
tisement.
“I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes.
From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in
his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet
Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s Court looked like
a coster’s orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so
many in the whole country as were brought together by that single ad-
vertisement. Every shade of colour they were – straw, lemon, orange,
brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not
many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how
many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding
would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed

6
and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up
to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon
the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but
we wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the of-
fice.”
“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” remarked
Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge
pinch of snuff. “Pray continue your very interesting statement.”
“There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs
and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was
even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he
came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them
which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be
such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the
little man was much more favourable to me than to any of the others,
and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private
word with us.
“This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,” said my assistant, “and he is will-
ing to fill a vacancy in the League.”
“And he is admirably suited for it,” the other answered. “He has
every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.”
He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at
my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward,
wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.
“It would be injustice to hesitate,” said he. “You will, however,
I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.” With that he
seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the
pain. “There is water in your eyes,” said he as he released me. “I per-
ceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have
twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales
of cobbler’s wax which would disgust you with human nature.” He
stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his
voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up
from below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions until
there was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the
manager.
“My name,” said he, “is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one
of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you

7
a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?”
“I answered that I had not.
“His face fell immediately.
“Dear me!” he said gravely, “that is very serious indeed! I am
sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propaga-
tion and spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is
exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.”
“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I
was not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a
few minutes he said that it would be all right.
“In the case of another,” said he, “the objection might be fatal,
but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair
as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?”
“Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,” said
I.
“Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!” said Vincent Spauld-
ing. “I should be able to look after that for you.”
“What would be the hours?” I asked.
“Ten to two.”
“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an evening,
Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just
before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the
mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that
he would see to anything that turned up.
“That would suit me very well,” said I. “And the pay?”
“Is £4 a week.”
“And the work?”
“Is purely nominal.”
“What do you call purely nominal?”
“Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building,
the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever.
The will is very clear upon that point. You don’t comply with the con-
ditions if you budge from the office during that time.”
“It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,”
said I.
“No excuse will avail,” said Mr. Duncan Ross; “neither sick-
ness nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose
your billet.”

8
 “And the work?”
“Is to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. There is the first
volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and blot-
ting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready to-
morrow?”
“Certainly,” I answered.
“Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate
you once more on the important position which you have been fortu-
nate enough to gain.” He bowed me out of the room and I went home
with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased
at my own good fortune.
“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was
in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole
affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might
be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone
could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing
anything so simple as copying out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Vin-
cent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had
reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I de-
termined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of
ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started
off for Pope’s Court.
“Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as
possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross
was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the
letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time
to see that all was right with me. At two o’clock he bade me good-day,
complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and locked the
door of the office after me.
“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the
manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my
week’s work. It was the same next week, and the same the week after.
Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By
degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning,
and then, after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never
dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he
might come, and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so
well, that I would not risk the loss of it.

9
 “Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Ab-
bots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped
with diligence that I might get on to the B’s before very long. It cost
me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with
my writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end.”
“To an end?”
“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as
usual at ten o’clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little
square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a
tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself.”
He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet
of note-paper. It read in this fashion:

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

IS DISSOLVED
October 9, 1890

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and

the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so com-
pletely overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out
into a roar of laughter.
“I cannot see that there is anything very funny,” cried our client,
flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. “If you can do nothing
better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere.”
“No, no,” cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from
which he had half risen. “I really wouldn’t miss your case for the
world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse
my saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps
did you take when you found the card upon the door?”
“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at
the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it.
Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the
ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of
the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such
body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that
the name was new to him.
“Well,” said I, “the gentleman at No. 4.”
“What, the red-headed man?”

10
 “Yes.”
“Oh,” said he, “his name was William Morris. He was a solici-
tor and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new
premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.”
“Where could I find him?”
“Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17
King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s.”
“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was
a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard
of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross.”
“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes.
“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of
my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say
that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good
enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a
struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice
to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you.”
“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your case is an ex-
ceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From
what you have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues
hang from it than might at first sight appear.”
“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I have lost four
pound a week.”
“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked Holmes, “I
do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary
league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some £30,
to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on ev-
ery subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by
them.”
“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are,
and what their object was in playing this prank – if it was a prank –
upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two
and thirty pounds.”
“We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first,
one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first
called your attention to the advertisement – how long had he been
with you?”
“About a month then.”

11
 “How did he come?”
“In answer to an advertisement.”
“Was he the only applicant?”
“No, I had a dozen.”
“Why did you pick him?”
“Because he was handy and would come cheap.”
“At half wages, in fact.”
“Yes.”
“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?”
“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
though he’s not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his
forehead.”
Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. “I
thought as much,” said he. “Have you ever observed that his ears are
pierced for earrings?”
“Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he
was a lad.”
“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. “He is still
with you?”
“Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him.”
“And has your business been attended to in your absence?”
“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very much to do of
a morning.”
“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opin-
ion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday,
and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion.”
“Well, Watson,” said Holmes when our visitor had left us,
“what do you make of it all?”
“I make nothing of it,” I answered frankly. “It is a most myste-
rious business.”
“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing is the less
mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes
which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most dif-
ficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked.
“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three pipe problem, and
I beg that you won’t speak to me for fifty minutes.” He curled himself
up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose,

12
and there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting
out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that
he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he sud-
denly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made
up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.
“Sarasate plays at the St. James’s Hall this afternoon,” he re-
marked. “What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you
for a few hours?”
“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorb-
ing.”
“Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City
first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a
good deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more
to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to in-
trospect. Come along!”
We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a
short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular
story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little,
shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick
houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of
weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard
fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt
balls and a brown board with “JABEZ WILSON” in white letters,
upon a corner house, announced the place where our red-headed client
carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with
his head on one side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining
brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street,
and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses.
Finally he returned to the pawnbroker’s, and, having thumped vigor-
ously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up
to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking,
clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, “I only wished to ask you how you
would go from here to the Strand.”
“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant promptly, clos-
ing the door.
“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we walked away. “He
is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring

13
I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known some-
thing of him before.”
“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts for a good
deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you in-
quired your way merely in order that you might see him.”
“Not him.”
“What then?”
“The knees of his trousers.”
“And what did you see?”
“What I expected to see.”
“Why did you beat the pavement?”
“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We
are spies in an enemy’s country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg
Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it.”
The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the
corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a con-
trast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the
main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and
west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of com-
merce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the foot-
paths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was diffi-
cult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately busi -
ness premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded
and stagnant square which we had just quitted.
“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing
along the line, “I should like just to remember the order of the houses
here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London.
There is Mortimer’s, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the
Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restau-
rant, and McFarlane’s carriage-building depot. That carries us right on
to the other block. And now, Doctor, we’ve done our work, so it’s
time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off
to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and
there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.”
My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only
a very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the
afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness,
gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his

14
gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those
of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his sin-
gular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his ex-
treme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought,
the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which occa-
sionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from
extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was
never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been
lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter
editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come
upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the
level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods
would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that
of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the
music at St. James’s Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon
those whom he had set himself to hunt down.
“You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor,” he remarked as we
emerged.
“Yes, it would be as well.”
“And I have some business to do which will take some hours.
This business at Coburg Square is serious.”
“Why serious?”
“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason
to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday
rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night.”
“At what time?”
“Ten will be early enough.”
“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.”
“Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger,
so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket.” He waved his hand,
turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.
I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was
always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings
with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen
what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw
clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen,
while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I

15
drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the
extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the Encyclopaedia
down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with
which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition,
and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we
to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbro-
ker’s assistant was a formidable man—a man who might play a deep
game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the mat-
ter aside until night should bring an explanation.
It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made
my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street.
Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I
heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found
Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recog-
nised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a
long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively re-
spectable frock-coat.
“Ha! Our party is complete,” said Holmes, buttoning up his
pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. “Watson,
I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you
to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night’s adven-
ture.”
“We’re hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see,” said Jones
in his consequential way. “Our friend here is a wonderful man for
starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the run-
ning down.”
“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase,”
observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.
“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,”
said the police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which
are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fan-
tastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much
to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and
the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official
force.”
“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right,” said the stranger
with deference. “Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first
Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rub-

16
ber.”
“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that you will
play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that
the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake
will be some £30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon
whom you wish to lay your hands.”
“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He’s a
young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession,
and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in
London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather
was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His
brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at
every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He’ll crack
a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphan-
age in Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track for years and have
never set eyes on him yet.”
“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-
night. I’ve had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I
agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten,
however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first
hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second.”
Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long
drive and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard
in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit
streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.
“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. “This fellow
Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the mat-
ter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fel-
low, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one posi-
tive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if
he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for
us.”
We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we
had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and,
following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a nar-
row passage and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within
there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate.
This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps,

17
which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather
stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-
smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault
or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.
“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes remarked as
he held up the lantern and gazed about him.
“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick
upon the flags which lined the floor. “Why, dear me, it sounds quite
hollow!” he remarked, looking up in surprise.
“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!” said Holmes
severely. “You have already imperilled the whole success of our expe-
dition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon
one of those boxes, and not to interfere?”
The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate,
with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon
his knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens,
began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few sec-
onds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his
glass in his pocket.
“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, “for they
can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed.
Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the
longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor
– as no doubt you have divined – in the cellar of the City branch of
one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman
of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the
more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in
this cellar at present.”
“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. “We have had
several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it.”
“Your French gold?”
“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our re-
sources and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the
Bank of France. It has become known that we have never had occa-
sion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The
crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between lay-
ers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is
usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had mis-

18
givings upon the subject.”
“Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. “And now
it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour
matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we
must put the screen over that dark lantern.”
“And sit in the dark?”
“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and
I thought that, as we were a partie carrée, you might have your rubber
after all. But I see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far that
we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must
choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take
them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are care-
ful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves be-
hind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If
they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down.”
I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case
behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his
lantern and left us in pitch darkness – such an absolute darkness as I
have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to as-
sure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment’s
notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy,
there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom,
and in the cold dank air of the vault.
“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. “That is back
through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have
done what I asked you, Jones?”
“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door.”
“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be
silent and wait.”
What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was
but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must
have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were
weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves
were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so
acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my compan-
ions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky
Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my posi-
tion I could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly

19
my eyes caught the glint of a light.
At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then
it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any
warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a
white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the lit-
tle area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fin-
gers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as
it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which
marked a chink between the stones.
Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rend-
ing, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its
side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light
of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face,
which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of
the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee
rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the hole
and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself,
with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.
“It’s all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel and the
bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I’ll swing for it!”
Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the
collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rend-
ing cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the
barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came down on the
man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.
“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes blandly. “You have no
chance at all.”
“So I see,” the other answered with the utmost coolness. “I
fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails.”
“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” said Holmes.
“Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely.
I must compliment you.”
“And I you,” Holmes answered. “Your red-headed idea was
very new and effective.”
“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. “He’s quicker
at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the der-
bies.”
“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands,” re-

20
marked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. “You
may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the good-
ness, also, when you address me always to say ‘sir’ and ‘please’.”
“All right,” said Jones with a stare and a snigger. “Well, would
you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your
Highness to the police-station?”
“That is better,” said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping
bow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the de-
tective.
“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather as we followed
them from the cellar, “I do not know how the bank can thank you or
repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in
the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at
bank robbery that have ever come within my experience.”
“I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr.
John Clay,” said Holmes. “I have been at some small expense over
this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I
am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways
unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-
headed League.”
“You see, Watson,” he explained in the early hours of the morn-
ing as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, “it was
perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of this
rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the
copying of the Encyclopaedia, must be to get this not over-bright
pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a
curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest
a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay’s ingenious
mind by the colour of his accomplice’s hair. The £4 a week was a lure
which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for
thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the tempo-
rary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together
they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week. From
the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it
was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the sit-
uation.”
“But how could you guess what the motive was?”
“Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a

21
mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The
man’s business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house
which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an ex-
penditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house.
What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s fondness for photogra-
phy, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was
the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysteri-
ous assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and
most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the cel-
lar – something which took many hours a day for months on end.
What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was
running a tunnel to some other building.
“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I
surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was as-
certaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was
not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant an-
swered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes
upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were
what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn,
wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of bur-
rowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for.
I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted
on our friend’s premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When
you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and
upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have
seen.”
“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-
night?” I asked.
“Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign
that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s presence – in other
words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that
they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might
be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it
would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I ex-
pected them to come to-night.”
“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed in unfeigned ad-
miration. “It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true.”
“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. “Alas! I al-

22
ready feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to
escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems
help me to do so.”
“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it is of
some little use,” he remarked. “L’homme c’est rien – l’oeuvre c’est
tout,” as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand.”

EXERCISES

1. Transcribe, translate and memorize the following words and re-

produce them in context:
stout, portly, obese; intrusion, bizarre, to take the liberty of, the course
of events, to dangle, chagrin, to take snuff, to entitle, bequest, ejacu-
lated, off the beaten truck, widower, trustee, interest, to do sb a good
turn, bashful, to hesitate, to forfeit, billet, hoax, fraud; diligence, rue-
ful, shabby-genteel, minute knowledge, to play a prank, bill, a swarm
of pedestrians, stately, a chase, dense, ominous, nocturnal expedition,
loftily, deference, stake, to be tenacious, orphanage, to be on sb’s
track, daring, in pitch darkness, retreat, acute, lurid, aperture, intruder,
blandly, to refund, accomplice, lure.

2. Give the definition of the following words:

to withdraw, vice, to perceive, to embellish, commonplace, trick,
league, pawnbroker, cobbler’s wax, benefactor, sovereign, curt, griev-
ance, faded, sleuth-hound, hansom, to divine, ingenious mind.

1. Provide synonyms and translate:

cordially, to endeavour, to be deceived, Underground, to vex, formida-
ble.

2. Paraphrase with your own words and reproduce in context:

relish, to recommence, dejected, avail, uncongenial, conundrums, to
look askance, to imperil, misgiving, derbies / bracelets, tangled clue,
unfeigned admiration, ennui.
3. Ask 10 tricky questions about the story.
4. Who is described by the following?
23
 a. a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red
hair
b. an average commonplace British tradesman, obese,
pompous, and slow
c. every shade of colour they were – straw, lemon, orange,
brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay
d. a small man with a head that was even redder than mine
e. his ears are pierced for earrings
f. he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting
out like the bill of some strange bird
g. Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face,
though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his
forehead.
h. A light-looking, clean-shaven young fellow
i. a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and op-
pressively respectable frock-coat
j. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his
profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog
and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone.
k. lithe and small …with a pale face and a shock of very red
hair
5. Who said this, to whom and about what?
a. You could not possibly have come at a better time…
b. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to
the best of my belief, unique.
c. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's carpenter.
d. What on earth does this mean?
e. I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.
f. And what are they worth?
g. You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men.
h. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson?
i. And has your business been attended to in your absence?
j. It is a most mysterious business.
k. Ten will be early enough.
l. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.
m. Still, I confess that I miss my rubber.
n. John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger.
o. They have but one retreat…
24
p. You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compli-
ment you.
q. Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a
cab to carry your Highness to the police-station?
r. I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you.
9. Discussion: retell in detail
1. What is Sherlock Holmes’s opinion of the strange cases?
2. Speak about Mr. Wilson’s dress and appearance. Watson’s inspec-
tion and Sherlock Holmes’s deductive reasoning concerning Mr.
Wilson.
3. What was the visitor looking for in a newspaper? What did you
learn form the story about the Red-Headed League? Who founded
it? Who suited this league?
4. Dwell on Mr. Jabez Wilson’s lifestyle, occupation and the present
condition of his business.
5. Describe Mr. Jabez Wilson’s visit to League’s office. What job
was he required to do as a member of the league?
6. What happened in eight weeks? What actions did Mr. Wilson take?
7. Sherlock Holmes’s questions about Mr. Jabez Wilson’s assistant.
8. Dwell on Sherlock Holmes’s inspection of Saxe-Coburg Square.
A talk with Spaulding.
9. The nocturnal expedition.
10. Who is John Clay? What did you learn about his background.
11. What was the true purpose of “The Red-Headed League?” What
was the real reason Mr. Jabez Wilson was chosen for the club?

25