“Who then is Porlock?” I asked. #SherlockHolmes #ArthurConanDoyle

“It is Porlock’s writing,” said he thoughtfully. “I can hardly doubt that it is Porlock’s writing, though I have seen it only twice before. The Greek e with the peculiar top flourish is distinctive. But if it is Porlock, then it must be something of the very first importance.”

He was too much absorbed with his own thoughts to give any immediate answer to my remonstrance. He leaned upon his hand, with his untasted breakfast before him, and he stared at the slip of paper which he had just drawn from its envelope.

And what is the best opening line/graph of the #SherlockHolmes novels? I am inclined to favor this from #TheValleyOfFear

The best, perhaps, of all Doyle's first lines. “My dear fellow,” said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, “life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.” #SherlockHolmes #ArthurConanDoyle

“Now, Watson, confess yourself utterly taken aback,” said he. “I am.” “I ought to make you sign a paper to that effect.” “Why?” “Because in five minutes you will say that it is all so absurdly simple.” #SherlockHolmes #ArthurConanDoyle

We can hardly stop there! -- I gave a start of astonishment. Accustomed as I was to Holmes's curious faculties, this sudden intrusion into my most intimate thoughts was utterly inexplicable.

For Holmes and Doyle lovers (and Watson too) - a story's opening line or graph can provide the most fun, as in 'Dancing Men' -

Should they in the future join their forces, as seems not unlikely, the financial world may find that Mr. Neil Gibson has learned something in that schoolroom of Sorrow where our earthly lessons are taught." #SherlockHolmes #ArthurConanDoyle #TheProblemOfThorBridge

When Miss Dunbar appeared she used her last breath in pouring out her hatred, and then, when she was out of hearing, carried out her terrible purpose. Every link is now in its place and the chain is complete.

"Then she took one of her husband's revolvers—there was, as you saw, an arsenal in the house—and kept it for her own use. A similar one she concealed that morning in Miss Dunbar's wardrobe after discharging one barrel, which she could easily do in the woods without attracting attention.

"We can follow the various steps quite clearly, and they show a remarkable subtlety of mind. A note was extracted very cleverly from Miss Dunbar which would make it appear that she had chosen the scene of the crime.

"It must be admitted that the workings of this unhappy woman's mind were deep and subtle, so that it was no very simple matter to unravel her plot. I do not think that in our adventures we have ever come across a stranger example of what perverted love can bring about.

Late that evening, as we sat together smoking our pipes in the village inn, Holmes gave me a brief review of what had passed. "I fear, Watson," said he, "that you will not improve any reputation which I may have acquired by adding the Case of the Thor Bridge Mystery to your annals.

"We'll stay at the inn to-night," he continued, as he rose and faced the astonished sergeant. "You will, of course, get a grappling-hook and you will easily restore my friend's revolver.

"Was there ever a more exact demonstration?" he cried. "See, Watson, your revolver has solved the problem!"

"Now for it!" he cried. At the words he raised the pistol to his head, and then let go his grip. In an instant it had been whisked away by the weight of the stone, had struck with a sharp crack against the parapet, and had vanished over the side into the water.

As he walked he had firmly tied one end of the string to the handle of the revolver. We had now reached the scene of the tragedy. With great care he marked out under the guidance of the policeman the exact spot where the body had been stretched.

"Yes," he said, in answer to my remark, "you have seen me miss my mark before, Watson. I have an instinct for such things, and yet it has sometimes played me false. It seemed a certainty when first it flashed across my mind in the cell at Winchester,

"I think that this is all we will need," said Holmes. "Now, if you please, we will get off on what I hope is the last stage of our journey." The sun was setting and turning the rolling Hampshire moor into a wonderful autumnal panorama.

"A clue, Mr. Holmes? What is it?" "It all depends upon the behaviour of Dr. Watson's revolver," said my friend. "Here it is. Now, officer, can you give me ten yards of string?" The village shop provided a ball of stout twine. #SherlockHolmes #ArthurConanDoyle #TheProblemOfThorBridge

I had no glimmer of what was in his mind nor did he enlighten me, but sat lost in thought until we pulled up in the little Hampshire station.

"Do you know, Watson," said he, "I believe your revolver is going to have a very intimate connection with the mystery which we are investigating." "My dear Holmes, you are joking." "No, Watson, I am very serious. There is a test before us.

"Watson," said he, "I have some recollection that you go armed upon these excursions of ours."

It was not a long journey from Winchester to Thor Place, but it was long to me in my impatience, while for Holmes it was evident that it seemed endless;

"Never mind, my dear lady. You will hear from me, Mr. Cummings. With the help of the God of justice I will give you a case which will make England ring.

Holmes did not answer. His pale, eager face had suddenly assumed that tense, far-away expression which I had learned to associate with the supreme manifestations of his genius.

"There was some sign of violence on the stonework of the bridge—a perfectly fresh chip just opposite the body. Could you suggest any possible explanation of that?" "Surely it must be a mere coincidence."

"And when?" "It could only have been at meal-time, or else at the hours when I would be in the schoolroom with the children." "As you were when you got the note?"

"When was it found?" "Next morning, when the police made their search." "Among your clothes?" "Yes; on the floor of my wardrobe under my dresses." "You could not guess how long it had been there?" "It had not been there the morning before."

"Did you see Mr. Gibson?" "Yes; he had just returned from the bridge when I saw him. He had sent for the doctor and the police." "Did he seem to you much perturbed?"

"Where she was afterwards found?" "Within a few yards from the spot." "And yet, presuming that she met her death shortly after you left her, you heard no shot?"

"I went down as I had promised. When I reached the bridge she was waiting for me. Never did I realize till that moment how this poor creature hated me. She was like a mad woman—indeed, I think she was a mad woman, subtly mad with the deep power of deception which insane people may have.

She asked me to destroy her note and I burned it in the schoolroom grate. She was very much afraid of her husband, who treated her with a harshness for which I frequently reproached him, and I could only imagine that she acted in this way because she did not wish him to know of our interview."

"With regard, then, to my presence at Thor Bridge that night, I received a note from Mrs. Gibson in the morning. It lay on the table of the schoolroom, and it may have been left there by her own hand. It implored me to see her there after dinner, said she had something important to say to me,

"Now, Miss Dunbar," said Holmes, "I beg you to tell us exactly what occurred that evening." "I can tell you the truth so far as I know it, Mr. Holmes, but I am in a position to prove nothing, and there are points—the most vital points—which I can neither explain nor can I imagine any explanation."

"She hated me, Mr. Holmes. She hated me with all the fervour of her tropical nature. She was a woman who would do nothing by halves, and the measure of her love for her husband was the measure also of her hatred for me. It is probable that she misunderstood our relations.

"It seemed to me incredible that such a charge could be sustained. I thought that if we waited the whole thing must clear itself up without our being compelled to enter into painful details of the inner life of the family. But I understand that far from clearing it has become even more serious."

"Perhaps Mr. Neil Gibson has told you something of what occurred between us?" she asked, in a low, agitated voice. "Yes," Holmes answered; "you need not pain yourself by entering into that part of the story.

One felt, too, as one looked at that strong, clear-cut, and yet sensitive face, that even should she be capable of some impetuous deed, none the less there was an innate nobility of character which would make her influence always for the good.

We were compelled to spend the night at Winchester, as the formalities had not yet been completed, but next morning, in the company of Mr. Joyce Cummings, the rising barrister who was entrusted with the defence, we were allowed to see the young lady in her cell.

When once your point of view is changed, the very thing which was so damning becomes a clue to the truth. For example, there is this revolver. Miss Dunbar disclaims all knowledge of it. On our new theory she is speaking truth when she says so.

"In the excitement of the moment——" "No, no, Watson, I will not admit that it is possible. Where a crime is coolly premeditated, then the means of covering it are coolly premeditated also. I hope, therefore, that we are in the presence of a serious misconception."

"Well now, Watson, suppose for a moment that we visualize you in the character of a woman who, in a cold, premeditated fashion, is about to get rid of a rival. You have planned it. A note has been written. The victim has come. You have your weapon. The crime is done.

"And what is that, Holmes?" "The finding of the pistol in her wardrobe." "Dear me, Holmes!" I cried, "that seemed to me to be the most damning incident of all."

Dinner was over at eight-thirty and all was normal up to then. It is true that the alarm was somewhat late in the evening, but the tragedy certainly occurred about the hour named in the note.

"Did you ever witness physical violence towards her?" "No, I cannot say that. But I have heard words which were nearly as bad—words of cold, cutting contempt, even before the servants." "Our millionaire does not seem to shine in private life," remarked Holmes, as we made our way to the station.

Mr. Neil Gibson had not returned from town, but we saw in the house the neurotic Mr. Bates who had called upon us in the morning. He showed us with a sinister relish the formidable array of fire-arms of various shapes and sizes which his employer had accumulated in the course of an adventurous life.

"Yes, it is fifteen feet from the body. It may have nothing to do with the matter, but it is a point worth noting. I do not think that we have anything more to learn here. There were no footsteps, you say?" "The ground was iron hard, sir. There were no traces at all."

The stonework was grey, but at this one point it showed white for a space not larger than a sixpence. When examined closely one could see that the surface was chipped as by a sharp blow. "It took some violence to do that," said Holmes thoughtfully.