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robbed me of the prospect of a son and heir; then—yes—I think I might have done as you have done. It is difficult for me to say, Watson. As I have told you, all emotion is abhorrent to me, and I have never loved.
    â€œBut I do know, Doctor, that I missed your help and counsel during my three lost years of wandering more than I can ever say. I would rather have my friend beside me, here in Baker Street, than to bring another murderer to justice. What is justice? What is law? In our imperfect world, it can hold no remedy for such a case as yours. So God—if He exists—must judge you, Watson, for I find that I cannot. My dear fellow,” he concluded sadly, “I know you well enough to know that you will judge yourself.”
    And so I have. For the question that I failed to ask, in deciding to kill Richard Anstruther, is what Mary would have wanted. In my remorse, as in my actions, I am no better than the man I murdered; and remorse for actions taken in cold blood may offer little mitigation in the eyes of Heaven. Yet, if I have been permitted to escape the earthly consequences of my crime; and to lead a productive, full, and even honoured life; then let me now, at the end of it, reveal my guilt within these pages and add one last, terrible chapter to these chronicles of my devoted friend.
    I trust that in so doing, I shall cast no shadow on his fame. Sherlock Holmes always insisted that he was not retained by the official police to supply their deficiencies. He lived and worked by his own standards; and while those standards may occasionally have been tempered or suspended, they were always in accordance with the dictates of his heart. For my friend possessed a nobler heart than he would ever have acknowledged, and even now I regard him as the best and wisest man whom I have ever known.
    John H. Watson, M.D.
    August 14, 1931

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