“Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor,” murmured Holmes without opening his eyes.  For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information.  In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.

“Let me see!” said Holmes.  “Hum!  Born in New Jersey in the year 1858.  Contralto—­hum!  La Scala, hum!  Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw—­yes!  Retired from operatic stage—­ha!  Living in London—­quite so!  Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back.”

“Precisely so.  But how—­”

“Was there a secret marriage?”

“None.”

“No legal papers or certificates?”

“None.”

“Then I fail to follow your Majesty.  If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?”

“There is the writing.”

“Pooh, pooh!  Forgery.”

“My private note-paper.”

“Stolen.”

“My own seal.”

“Imitated.”

“My photograph.”

“Bought.”

“We were both in the photograph.”

“Oh, dear!  That is very bad!  Your Majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion.”

“I was mad—­insane.”

“You have compromised yourself seriously.”

“I was only Crown Prince then.  I was young.  I am but thirty now.”

“It must be recovered.”

“We have tried and failed.”

“Your Majesty must pay.  It must be bought.”

“She will not sell.”

“Stolen, then.”

“Five attempts have been made.  Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house.  Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled.  Twice she has been waylaid.  There has been no result.”

“No sign of it?”

“Absolutely none.”

Holmes laughed.  “It is quite a pretty little problem,” said he.

“But a very serious one to me,” returned the King reproachfully.

“Very, indeed.  And what does she propose to do with the photograph?”

“To ruin me.”

“But how?”

“I am about to be married.”

“So I have heard.”

“To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia.  You may know the strict principles of her family.  She is herself the very soul of delicacy.  A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end.”

“And Irene Adler?”

“Threatens to send them the photograph.  And she will do it.  I know that she will do it.  You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel.  She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men.  Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go—­none.”