
Classic·Detective Fiction
The Sign of the Four
Arthur Conan Doyle
A stolen Indian treasure, a deadly secret pact, and a baffling puzzle for Sherlock Holmes across foggy Victorian London.

“A convalescent army doctor meets an eccentric consulting detective, unraveling a bloody London mystery that spans two continents.”
In the shadowy fog of Victorian London, Dr. John Watson, newly returned and wounded from the Afghan War, seeks an affordable lodging and finds an extraordinary roommate: the brilliant, aloof Sherlock Holmes. When Scotland Yard calls upon Holmes to investigate an abandoned house in Brixton where a man lies murdered without a wound—and the German word for revenge scrawled in blood—the duo embarks on their first historic case. The trail of forensic clues and cryptic motives stretches far beyond Britain’s capital into a bitter saga of persecution and retribution across the American frontier.
“The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out.”
““It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,” I answered, “but practically——””
“We met next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221B, Baker Street, of which he had spoken at our meeting.”
““Why, this article,” I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat down to my breakfast.”
““Commonplace,” said Holmes, though I thought from his expression that he was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration.”
““We have it all here,” said Gregson, pointing to a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs.”
““You amaze me, Holmes,” said I. “Surely you are not as sure as you pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave.””
““You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,” my companion interrupted.”
“Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the man’s death, since there was neither wound nor marks of strangulation?”
““Either his whole theory is incorrect,” I thought to myself, “or else he will be led now to the heart of the mystery.””
“The Socialists had many branches in America, and the deceased had, no doubt, infringed their unwritten laws, and been tracked down by them.”
“‘Now, sir,’ she continued, ‘I had no intention of telling you all this, but since my poor daughter has disclosed it I have no alternative.”
““It was quite thick enough before,” grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair.”
“There was the dead dog, however, to prove that his conjecture had been correct.”
“They all preserve, however, the common characteristics of barrenness, inhospitality, and misery.”
““The wells are to the right, my brothers,” said one, a hard-lipped, clean-shaven man with grizzly hair.”
“Maps were drawn and charts prepared, in which the future city was sketched out.”
““I’m awful frightened,” she said, naively; “whoever would have thought that Poncho would have been so scared by a lot of cows?””
“He had always determined, deep down in his resolute heart, that nothing would ever induce him to allow his daughter to wed a Mormon.”
““It will be for the maiden to decide,” rejoined young Drebber, smirking at his own reflection in the glass.”
““There are not many who would come to share our danger and our troubles.””
“More than once they lost their way, but Hope’s intimate knowledge of the mountains enabled them to regain the track once more.”
““I don’t fear them, or their warrant,” Hope said, earnestly.”
““I guess you’re going to take me to the police-station,” he remarked to Sherlock Holmes.”
“I lit a cigar, and puffed at it to steady my nerves, but my hands were trembling, and my temples throbbing with excitement.”
““Well, really, it can hardly be described as otherwise,” said Sherlock Holmes, smiling at my surprise.”

Classic·Detective Fiction
Arthur Conan Doyle
A stolen Indian treasure, a deadly secret pact, and a baffling puzzle for Sherlock Holmes across foggy Victorian London.

Classic·Detective Fiction
Arthur Conan Doyle
A deadly ancient curse haunts the fog-drenched Devon moors, challenging Sherlock Holmes with his most chilling case.

Classic·Detective Fiction
Arthur Conan Doyle
Step into 221B Baker Street and witness the world's greatest consulting detective dismantle London's most baffling enigmas through pure deduction.
Public-domain work (1887). Text: Project Gutenberg #244. The Spanish version is an AI-assisted translation and may contain errors. Digital edition by Inkora Stories. Learn more