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Authors: Arthur Conan Doyle
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throwing down your paper, which was the
action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with a
vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly
framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your
face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not lead
very far. Your eyes flashed across to the unframed portrait of Henry
Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. Then you glanced
up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You were
thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover that bare
space and correspond with Gordon's picture there."
"You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.
"So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts went
back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying the
character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you
continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were
recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that you
could not do this without thinking of the mission which he undertook on
behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I remember your
expressing your passionate indignation at the way in which he was
received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly
about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of
that also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the
picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil War,
and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your
hands clenched I was positive that you were indeed thinking of the
gallantry which was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle. But
then, again, your face grew sadder, you shook your head. You were
dwelling upon the sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your
hand stole towards your own old wound and a smile quivered on your
lips, which showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of
settling international questions had forced itself upon your mind. At
this point I agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to
find that all my deductions had been correct."
"Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have explained it, I confess
that I am as amazed as before."
"It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not
have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some incredulity
the other day. But I have in my hands here a little problem which may
prove to be more difficult of solution than my small essay I thought
reading. Have you observed in the paper a short paragraph referring to
the remarkable contents of a packet sent through the post to Miss
Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?"
"No, I saw nothing."
"Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me. Here
it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good enough to
read it aloud."
I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the
paragraph indicated. It was headed, "A Gruesome Packet."
"Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been made the
victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revolting practical
joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be attached to
the incident. At two o'clock yesterday afternoon a small packet,
wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by the postman. A cardboard box
was inside, which was filled with coarse salt. On emptying this, Miss
Cushing was horrified to find two human ears, apparently quite freshly
severed. The box had been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the
morning before. There is no indication as to the sender, and the
matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of
fifty, has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances or
correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive anything
through the post. Some years ago, however, when she resided at Penge,
she let apartments in her house to three young medical
action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with a
vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly
framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your
face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not lead
very far. Your eyes flashed across to the unframed portrait of Henry
Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. Then you glanced
up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You were
thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover that bare
space and correspond with Gordon's picture there."
"You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.
"So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts went
back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying the
character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you
continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were
recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that you
could not do this without thinking of the mission which he undertook on
behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I remember your
expressing your passionate indignation at the way in which he was
received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly
about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of
that also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the
picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil War,
and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your
hands clenched I was positive that you were indeed thinking of the
gallantry which was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle. But
then, again, your face grew sadder, you shook your head. You were
dwelling upon the sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your
hand stole towards your own old wound and a smile quivered on your
lips, which showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of
settling international questions had forced itself upon your mind. At
this point I agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to
find that all my deductions had been correct."
"Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have explained it, I confess
that I am as amazed as before."
"It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not
have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some incredulity
the other day. But I have in my hands here a little problem which may
prove to be more difficult of solution than my small essay I thought
reading. Have you observed in the paper a short paragraph referring to
the remarkable contents of a packet sent through the post to Miss
Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?"
"No, I saw nothing."
"Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me. Here
it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good enough to
read it aloud."
I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the
paragraph indicated. It was headed, "A Gruesome Packet."
"Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been made the
victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revolting practical
joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be attached to
the incident. At two o'clock yesterday afternoon a small packet,
wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by the postman. A cardboard box
was inside, which was filled with coarse salt. On emptying this, Miss
Cushing was horrified to find two human ears, apparently quite freshly
severed. The box had been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the
morning before. There is no indication as to the sender, and the
matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of
fifty, has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances or
correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive anything
through the post. Some years ago, however, when she resided at Penge,
she let apartments in her house to three young medical
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