“When I came to examine the address of the packet I observed that it was to Miss S. Cushing. Now, the oldest sister would, of course, be Miss Cushing, and although her initial was ‘S’ it might belong to one of the others as well. In that case we should have to commence our investigation from a fresh basis altogether. I therefore went into the house with the intention of clearing up this point. I was about to assure Miss Cushing that I was convinced that a mistake had been made when you may remember that I came suddenly to a stop. The fact was that I had just seen something which filled me with surprise and at the same time narrowed the field of our inquiry immensely.

“As a medical man, you are aware, Watson, that there is no part of the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as a rule quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. In last year’s Anthropological Journal you will find two short monographs from my pen upon the subject. I had, therefore, examined the ears in the box with the eyes of an expert and had carefully noted their anatomical peculiarities. Imagine my surprise, then, when on looking at Miss Cushing Cushing I perceived that her ear corresponded exactly with the female ear which I had just inspected. The matter was entirely beyond coincidence. There was the same shortening of convolution of the inner cartilage. In all essentials it was the same ear.

“Of course I at once saw the enormous importance of the observation. It was evident that the victim was a blood relation and probably a very close one. I began to talk to her about her family, and you remember that she at once gave us some exceedingly valuable details

“In the first place, her sister’s name was Sarah, and her address had until recently been the same, so that it was quite obvious how the mistake had occurred and for whom the packet was meant. Then we heard of this steward, married to the third sister, and learned that he had at one time been so intimate with Miss Sarah that she had actually gone up to Liverpool to be near the Browners, but a quarrel had afterwards divided them. This quarrel had put a stop to all communications for some months, so that if Browner had occasion to address a packet to Miss Sarah, he would undoubtedly have done so to her old address.

“And now the matter had begun to straighten itself out wonderfully. We had learned of the existence of this steward, an impulsive man, of strong passions — you remember that he threw up what must have been a very superior berth in order to be nearer to his wife — subject, too, to occasional fits of hard drinking. We had reason to believe that his wife had been murdered, and that a man — presumably a seafaring man — had been murdered at the same time. Jealousy, of course, at once suggests itself as the motive for the crime. And why should these proofs of the deed be sent to Miss Sarah Cushing? Probably because during her residence in Liverpool she had some hand in bringing about the events which led to the tragedy. You will observe that this line of boats calls at Belfast, Dublin, and Waterford; so that, presuming that Browner had committed the deed and had embarked at once upon his steamer, the May Day, Belfast would be the first place at which he could post his terrible packet.

‘But what DO you believe in?’ she insisted.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Nothing, like all the men I’ve ever known,’ she said.

They were both silent. Then he roused himself and said:

‘Yes, I do believe in something. I believe in being warmhearted. I believe especially in being warm–hearted in love, in fucking with a warm heart. I believe if men could fuck with warm hearts, and the women take it warm–heartedly, everything would come all right. It’s all this cold–hearted fucking that is death and idiocy.’

‘But you don’t fuck me cold–heartedly,’ she protested.

‘I don’t want to fuck you at all. My heart’s as cold as cold potatoes just now.’

‘Oh!’ she said, kissing him mockingly. ‘Let’s have them SAUTES.’ He laughed, and sat erect.

‘It’s a fact!’ he said. ‘Anything for a bit of warm–heartedness. But the women don’t like it. Even you don’t really like it. You like good, sharp, piercing cold–hearted fucking, and then pretending it’s all sugar. Where’s your tenderness for me? You’re as suspicious of me as a cat is of a dog. I tell you it takes two even to be tender and warm–hearted. You love fucking all right: but you want it to be called something grand and mysterious, just to flatter your own self–importance. Your own self–importance is more to you, fifty times more, than any man, or being together with a man.’

‘But that’s what I’d say of you. Your own self–importance is everything to you.’

‘Ay! Very well then!’ he said, moving as if he wanted to rise. ‘Let’s keep apart then. I’d rather die than do any more cold–hearted fucking.’

She slid away from him, and he stood up.

‘And do you think I want it?’ she said.

‘I hope you don’t,’ he replied. ‘But anyhow, you go to bed an’ I’ll sleep down here.’

She looked at him. He was pale, his brows were sullen, he was as distant in recoil as the cold pole. Men were all alike.

‘I can’t go home till morning,’ she said.

‘No! Go to bed. It’s a quarter to one.’

‘I certainly won’t,’ she said.

He went across and picked up his boots.

‘Then I’ll go out!’ he said.

He began to put on his boots. She stared at him.

‘Wait!’ she faltered. ‘Wait! What’s come between us?’

He was bent over, lacing his boot, and did not reply. The moments passed. A dimness came over her, like a swoon. All her consciousness died, and she stood there wide–eyed, looking at him from the unknown, knowing nothing any more.

He looked up, because of the silence, and saw her wide–eyed and lost. And as if a wind tossed him he got up and hobbled over to her, one shoe off and one shoe on, and took her in his arms, pressing her against his body, which somehow felt hurt right through. And there he held her, and there she remained.