His Last Bow

An Epilogue of Sherlock Holmes

By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle



It was nine o'clock at night upon the second of August--the most
terrible August in the history of the world. One might have
thought already that God's curse hung heavy over a degenerate
world, for there was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague
expectancy in the sultry and stagnant air. The sun had long set,
but one blood-red gash like an open wound lay low in the distant
west. Above, the stars were shining brightly, and below, the
lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay. The two famous
Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the garden walk, with
the long, low, heavily gabled house behind them, and they looked
down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the great
chalk cliff in which Von Bork, like some wandering eagle, had
perched himself four years before. They stood with their heads
close together, talking in low, confidential tones. From below
the two glowing ends of their cigars might have been the
smouldering eyes of some malignant fiend looking down in the
darkness.

A remarkable man this Von Bork--a man who could hardly be matched
among all the devoted agents of the Kaiser. It was his talents
which had first recommended him for the English mission, the most
important mission of all, but since he had taken it over those