Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering
woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by throngs
of singular and often undesirable characters but her remarkable lodger
showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which must have sorely
tried her patience. His incredible untidiness, his addiction to music at
strange hours, his occasional revolver practice within doors, his weird
and often malodorous scientific experiments, and the atmosphere of
violence and danger which hung around him made him the very worst tenant
in London. On the other hand, his payments were princely. I have no doubt
that the house might have been purchased at the price which Holmes paid
for his rooms during the years that I was with him.
The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to
interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. She was
fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy in his
dealings with women. He disliked and distrusted the sex, but he was always
a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was her regard for him, I
listened earnestly to her story when she came to my rooms in the second
year of my married life and told me of the sad condition to which my poor
friend was reduced.
"He's dying, Dr. Watson," said she. "For three days he has been
sinking, and I doubt if he will last the day. He would not let me get a
doctor. This morning when I saw his bones sticking out of his face and his
great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it. 'With your
leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very hour,'
said I. 'Let it be Watson, then,' said he. I wouldn't waste an hour in
coming to him, sir, or you may not see him alive."
I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not
say that I rushed for my coat and my hat. As we drove back I asked for the
details.
"There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a case
down at Rotherhithe, in an alley near the river, and he has brought this
illness back with him. He took to his bed on Wednesday afternoon and has
never moved since. For these three days neither food nor drink has passed
his lips."
"Good God! Why did you not call in a doctor?"
"He wouldn't have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I didn't
dare to disobey him. But he's not long for this world, as you'll see for
yourself the moment that you set eyes on him."
He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a foggy
November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was that gaunt,
wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a chill to my heart. His
eyes had the brightness of fever, there was a hectic flush upon either
cheek, and dark crusts clung to his lips; the thin hands upon the coverlet
twitched incessantly, his voice was croaking and spasmodic. He lay
listlessly as I entered the room, but the sight of me brought a gleam of
recognition to his eyes.
"Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days," said he in a
feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.
"My dear fellow!" I cried, approaching him.
"Stand back! Stand right back!" said he with the sharp imperiousness
which I had associated only with moments of crisis. "If you approach me,
Watson, I shall order you out of the house."
"But why?"
"Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?"
Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever. It was
pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.
"I only wished to help," I explained.
"Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told."
"Certainly, Holmes."
He relaxed the austerity of his manner.
"You are not angry?" he asked, gasping for breath.
Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a
plight before me?
"It's for your own sake, Watson," he croaked.
"For my sake?"
"I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from
Sumatra –– a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though they
have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is
infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious."
He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching and
jerking as he motioned me away.
"Contagious by touch, Watson –– that's it, by touch. Keep your
distance and all is well."
"Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration
weighs with me for an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a
stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so old
a friend?"
Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious anger.
"If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not you must leave
the room."
I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes
that I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least understood
them. But now all my professional instincts were aroused. Let him be my
master elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick room.
"Holmes," said I, "you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child,
and so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your
symptoms and treat you for them."
He looked at me with venomous eyes.
"If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have
someone in whom I have confidence," said he.
"Then you have none in me?"
"In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and,
after all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited
experience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say these
things, but you leave me no choice."
I was bitterly hurt.
"Such a remark is unworthy of you, Holmes. It shows me very clearly
the state of your own nerves. But if you have no confidence in me I would
not intrude my services. Let me bring Sir Jasper Meek or Penrose Fisher,
or any of the best men in London. But someone you must have, and that is
final. If you think that I am going to stand here and see you die without
either helping you myself or bringing anyone else to help you, then you
have mistaken your man."
"You mean well, Watson," said the sick man with something between a
sob and a groan. "Shall I demonstrate your own ignorance? What do you
know, pray, of Tapanuli fever? What do you know of the black Formosa
corruption?"
"I have never heard of either."
"There are many problems of disease, many strange pathological
possibilities, in the East, Watson." He paused after each sentence to
collect his failing strength. "I have learned so much during some recent
researches which have a medico-criminal aspect. It was in the course of
them that I contracted this complaint. You can do nothing."
"Possibly not. But I happen to know that Dr. Ainstree, the greatest
living authority upon tropical disease, is now in London. All remonstrance
is useless, Holmes, I am going this instant to fetch him." I turned
resolutely to the door.
Never have I had such a shock! In an instant, with a tiger-spring,
the dying man had intercepted me. I heard the sharp snap of a twisted key.
The next moment he had staggered back to his bed, exhausted and panting
after his one tremendous outflame of energy.
"You won't take the key from me by force, Watson. I've got you, my
friend. Here you are, and here you will stay until I will otherwise. But
I'll humour you." (All this in little gasps, with terrible struggles for
breath between.) "You've only my own good at heart. Of course I know that
very well. You shall have your way, but give me time to get my strength.
Not now, Watson, not now. It's four o'clock. At six you can go."
"This is insanity, Holmes."
"Only two hours, Watson. I promise you will go at six. Are you
content to wait?"
"l seem to have no choice."
"None in the world, Watson. Thank you, I need no help in arranging
the clothes. You will please keep your distance. Now, Watson, there is one
other condition that I would make. You will seek help, not from the man
you mention, but from the one that I choose."
"By all means."
"The first three sensible words that you have uttered since you
entered this room, Watson. You will find some books over there. I am
somewhat exhausted; I wonder how a battery feels when it pours electricity
into a non-conductor? At six, Watson, we resume our conversation."
But it was destined to be resumed long before that hour, and in
circumstances which gave me a shock hardly second to that caused by his
spring to the door. I had stood for some minutes looking at the silent
figure in the bed. His face was almost covered by the clothes and he
appeared to be asleep. Then, unable to settle down to reading, I walked
slowly round the room, examining the pictures of celebrated criminals with
which every wall was adorned. Finally, in my aimless perambulation, I came
to the mantelpiece. A litter of pipes, tobacco-pouches, syringes,
penknives, revolver-cartridges, and other debris was scattered over it. In
the midst of these was a small black and white ivory box with a sliding
lid. It was a neat little thing, and I had stretched out my hand to
examine it more closely when –– It was a dreadful cry that he gave –– a
yell which might have been heard down the street. My skin went cold and my
hair bristled at that horrible scream. As I turned I caught a glimpse of a
convulsed face and frantic eyes. I stood paralyzed, with the little box in
my hand.
"Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson –– this instant, I say!" His
head sank back upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of relief as I
replaced the box upon the mantelpiece. "I hate to have my things touched,
Watson. You know that I hate it. You fidget me beyond endurance. You, a
doctor –– you are enough to drive a patient into an asylum. Sit down, man,
and let me have my rest!"
The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind. The
violent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of speech, so
far removed from his usual suavity, showed me how deep was the
disorganization of his mind. Of all ruins, that of a noble mind is the
most deplorable. I sat in silent dejection until the stipulated time had
passed. He seemed to have been watching the clock as well as I, for it was
hardly six before he began to talk with the same feverish animation as
before.
"Now, Watson," said he. "Have you any change in your pocket?"
"Yes."
"Any silver?"
"A good deal."
"How many half-crowns?"
"I have five."
"Ah, too few! Too few! How very unfortunate, Watson! However, such as
they are you can put them in your watchpocket. And all the rest of your
money in your left trouserpocket. Thank you. It will balance you so much
better like that."
This was raving insanity. He shuddered, and again made a sound
between a cough and a sob.
"You will now light the gas, Watson, but you will be very careful
that not for one instant shall it be more than half on. I implore you to
be careful, Watson. Thank you, that is excellent. No, you need not draw
the blind. Now you will have the kindness to place some letters and papers
upon this table within my reach. Thank you. Now some of that litter from
the mantel-piece. Excellent, Watson! There is a sugar-tongs there. Kindly
raise that small ivory box with its assistance. Place it here among the
papers. Good! You can now go and fetch Mr. Culverton Smith, of 13 Lower
Burke Street."
To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat weakened,
for poor Holmes was so obviously delirious that it seemed dangerous to
leave him. However, he was as eager now to consult the person named as he
had been obstinate in refusing.
"I never heard the name," said I.
"Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you to know that the
man upon earth who is best versed in this disease is not a medical man,
but a planter. Mr. Culverton Smith is a well-known resident of Sumatra,
now visiting London. An outbreak of the disease upon his plantation, which
was distant from medical aid, caused him to study it himself, with some
rather far-reaching consequences. He is a very methodical person, and I
did not desire you to start before six, because I was well aware that you
would not find him in his study. If you could persuade him to come here
and give us the benefit of his unique experience of this disease, the
investigation of which has been his dearest hobby, I cannot doubt that he
could help me."
I give Holmes's remarks as a consecutive whole and will not attempt
to indicate how they were interrupted by gaspings for breath and those
clutchings of his hands which indicated the pain from which he was
suffering. His appearance had changed for the worse during the few hours
that I had been with him. Those hectic spots were more pronounced, the
eyes shone more brightly out of darker hollows, and a cold sweat glimmered
upon his brow. He still retained, however, the jaunty gallantry of his
speech. To the last gasp he would always be the master.
"You will tell him exactly how you have left me," said he. "You will
convey the very impression which is in your own mind –– a dying man –– a
dying and delirious man. Indeed, I can-not think why the whole bed of the
ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so prolific the creatures seem.
Ah, I am wandering! Strange how the brain controls the brain! What was I
saying, Watson?"
"My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith."
"Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead with him,
Watson. There is no good feeling between us. His nephew, Watson –– I had
suspicions of foul play and I allowed him to see it. The boy died
horribly. He has a grudge against me. You will soften him, Watson. Beg
him, pray him, get him here by any means. He can save me –– only he!"
"I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it."
"You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come. And
then you will return in front of him. Make any excuse so as not to come
with him. Don't forget, Watson. You won't fail me. You never did fail me.
No doubt there are natural enemies which limit the increase of the
creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall the world,
then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible! You'll convey all that is
in your mind."
I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect bab-bling
like a foolish child. He had handed me the key, and with a happy thought I
took it with me lest he should lock himself in. Mrs. Hudson was waiting,
trembling and weeping, in the passage. Behind me as I passed from the flat
I heard Holmes's high, thin voice in some delirious chant. Below, as I
stood whistling for a cab, a man came on me through the fog.
"How is Mr. Holmes, sir?" he asked.
It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard,
dressed in unofficial tweeds.
"He is very ill," I answered.
He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it not been too
fiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fanlight showed
exultation in his face.
"I heard some rumour of it," said he.
The cab had driven up, and I left him.
Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in the
vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular one
at which my cabman pulled up had an air of smug and demure respectability
in its old-fashioned iron railings, its massive folding-door, and its
shining brasswork. All was in keeping with a solemn butler who appeared
framed in the pink radiance of a tinted electric light behind him.
"Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson! Very good, sir, I will
take up your card."
My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr. Culverton
Smith. Through the half-open door I heard a high, petulant, penetrating
voice.
"Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me, Staples, how often
have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours of study?"
There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from the butler.
"Well, I won't see him, Staples. I can't have my work interrupted
like this. I am not at home. Say so. Tell him to come in the morning if he
really must see me."
Again the gentle murmur.
"Well, well, give him that message. He can come in the morning, or he
can stay away. My work must not be hindered."
I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness and counting the
minutes, perhaps, until I could bring help to him. It was not a time to
stand upon ceremony. His life depended upon my promptness. Before the
apologetic butler had delivered his message I had pushed past him and was
in the room.
With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair beside
the fire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy, with
heavy, double-chin, and two sullen, menacing gray eyes which glared at me
from under tufted and sandy brows. A high bald head had a small velvet
smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one side of its pink curve. The skull
was of enormous capacity, and yet as I looked down I saw to my amazement
that the figure of the man was small and frail, twisted in the shoulders
and back like one who has suffered from rickets in his childhood.
"What's this?" he cried in a high, screaming voice. "What is the
meaning of this intrusion? Didn't I send you word that I would see you
to-morrow morning?"
"I am sorry," said I, "but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr. Sherlock
Holmes –– "
The mention of my friend's name had an extraordinary effect upon the
little man. The look of anger passed in an instant from his face. His
features became tense and alert.
"Have you come from Holmes?" he asked.
"I have just left him."
"What about Holmes? How is he?"
"He is desperately ill. That is why I have come."
The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume his own. As he
did so I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror over the mantelpiece.
I could have sworn that it was set in a malicious and abominable smile.
Yet I persuaded myself that it must have been some nervous contraction
which I had surprised, for he turned to me an instant later with genuine
concern upon his features.
"I am sorry to hear this," said he. "I only know Mr. Holmes through
some business dealings which we have had, but I have every respect for his
talents and his character. He is an amateur of crime, as I am of disease.
For him the villain, for me the microbe. There are my prisons," he
continued, pointing to a row of bottles and jars which stood upon a side
table. "Among those gelatine cultivations some of the very worst offenders
in the world are now doing time."
"It was on account of your special knowledge that Mr. Holmes desired
to see you. He has a high opinion of you and thought that you were the one
man in London who could help him."
The little man started, and the jaunty smoking-cap slid to the floor.
"Why?" he asked. "Why should Mr. Holmes think that I could help him
in his trouble?"
"Because of your knowledge of Eastern diseases."
"But why should he think that this disease which he has contracted is
Eastern?"
"Because, in some professional inquiry, he has been working among
Chinese sailors down in the docks."
Mr. Culverton Smith smiled pleasantly and picked up his smoking-cap.
"Oh, that's it –– is it?" said he. "I trust the matter is not so
grave as you suppose. How long has he been ill?"
"About three days."
"Is he delirious?"
"Occasionally."
"Tut, tut! This sounds serious. It would be inhuman not to answer his
call. I very much resent any interruption to my work, Dr. Watson, but this
case is certainly exceptional. I will come with you at once."
I remembered Holmes's injunction.
"I have another appointment," said I.
"Very good. I will go alone. I have a note of Mr. Holmes's address.
You can rely upon my being there within half an hour at most."
It was with a sinking heart that I reentered Holmes's bedroom. For
all that I knew the worst might have happened in my absence. To my
enormous relief, he had improved greatly in the interval. His appearance
was as ghastly as ever, but all trace of delirium had left him and he
spoke in a feeble voice, it is true, but with even more than his usual
crispness and lucidity.
"Well, did you see him, Watson?"
"Yes; he is coming."
"Admirable, Watson! Admirable! You are the best of messengers."
"He wished to return with me."
"That would never do, Watson. That would be obviously impossible. Did
he ask what ailed me?"
"I told him about the Chinese in the East End."
"Exactly! Well, Watson, you have done all that a good friend could.
You can now disappear from the scene."
"I must wait and hear his opinion, Holmes."
"Of course you must. But I have reasons to suppose that this opinion
would be very much more frank and valuable if he imagines that we are
alone. There is just room behind the head of my bed, Watson."
"My dear Holmes!"
"I fear there is no alternative, Watson. The room does not lend
itself to concealment, which is as well, as it is the less likely to
arouse suspicion. But just there, Watson, I fancy that it could be done."
Suddenly he sat up with a rigid intentness upon his haggard face. "There
are the wheels, Watson. Quick, man, if you love me! And don't budge,
whatever happens –– whatever happens, do you hear? Don't speak! Don't
move! Just listen with all your ears." Then in an instant his sudden
access of strength departed, and his masterful, purposeful talk droned
away into the low, vague murmurings of a semi-dellrious man.
From the hiding-place into which I had been so swiftly hustled I
heard the footfalls upon the stair, with the opening and the closing of
the bedroom door. Then, to my surprise, there came a long silence, broken
only by the heavy breathings and gaspings of the sick man. I could imagine
that our visitor was standing by the bedside and looking down at the
sufferer. At last that strange hush was broken.
"Holmes!" he cried. "Holmes!" in the insistent tone of one who
awakens a sleeper. "Can't you hear me, Holmes?" There was a rustling, as
if he had shaken the sick man roughly by the shoulder.
"Is that you, Mr. Smith?" Holmes whispered. "I hardly dared hope that
you would come."
The other laughed.
"I should imagine not," he said. "And yet, you see, I am here. Coals
of fire, Holmes –– coals of fire!"
"It is very good of you –– very noble of you. I appreciate your
special knowledge."
Our visitor sniggered.
"You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does. Do
you know what is the matter with you?"
"The same," said Holmes.
"Ah! You recognize the symptoms?"
"Only too well."
"Well, I shouldn't be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn't be surprised if
it were the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead
man on the fourth day –– a strong, hearty young fellow. It was certainly,
as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted an
out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London –– a disease, too,
of which I had made such a very special study. Singular coincidence,
Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to suggest
that it was cause and effect."
"I knew that you did it."
"Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn't prove it, anyhow. But what
do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then
crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of a game
is that –– eh?"
I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man. "Give me the
water!" he gasped.
"You're precious near your end, my friend, but I don't want you to go
till I have had a word with you. That's why I give you water. There, don't
slop it about! That's right. Can you understand what I say?"
Holmes groaned.
"Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones," he whispered. "I'll
put the words out of my head –– I swear I will. Only cure me, and I'll
forget it."
"Forget what?"
"Well, about Victor Savage's death. You as good as admitted just now
that you had done it. I'll forget it."
"You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don't see you
in the witness-box. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure
you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died.
It's not him we are talking about. It's you."
"Yes, yes."
"The fellow who came for me –– I've forgotten his name –– said that
you contracted it down in the East End among the sailors."
"I could only account for it so."
"You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think yourself
smart, don't you? You came across someone who was smarter this time. Now
cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you could have
got this thing?"
"I can't think. My mind is gone. For heaven's sake help me! "
"Yes, I will help you. I'll help you to understand just where you are
and how you got there. I'd like you to know before you die."
"Give me something to ease my pain."
"Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards
the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy."
"Yes, yes; it is cramp."
"Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember
any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms
began?"
"No, no; nothing."
"Think again."
"I'm too ill to think."
"Well, then, I'll help you. Did anything come by post?"
"By post?"
"A box by chance?"
"I'm fainting –– I'm gone!"
"Listen, Holmes!" There was a sound as if he was shaking the dying
man, and it was all that I could do to hold myself quiet in my
hiding-place. "You must hear me. You shall hear me. Do you remember a box
–– an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it –– do you remember?"
"Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some joke
–– "
"It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would
have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you had
left me alone I would not have hurt you."
"I remember," Holmes gasped. "The spring! It drew blood. This box ––
this on the table."
"The very one, by George! And it may as well leave the room in my
pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth
now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You
knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share
it. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will watch
you die."
Holmes's voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.
"What is that?" said Smith. "Turn up the gas? Ah, the shadows begin
to fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better."
He crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. "Is there any other
little service that I can do you, my friend?"
"A match and a cigarette."
I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He was speaking in
his natural voice –– a little weak, perhaps, but the very voice I knew.
There was a long pause, and I felt that Culverton Smith was standing in
silent amazement looking down at his companion.
"What's the meaning of this?" I heard him say at last in a dry,
rasping tone.
"The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it," said
Holmes. "I give you my word that for three days I have tasted neither food
nor drink until you were good enough to pour me out that glass of water.
But it is the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah, here are some
cigarettes." I heard the striking of a match. "That is very much better.
Halloa! halloa! Do I hear the step of a friend?"
There were footfalls outside, the door opened, and Inspector Morton
appeared.
"All is in order and this is your man," said Holmes.
The officer gave the usual cautions.
"I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage," he
concluded.
"And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes,"
remarked my friend with a chuckle. "To save an invalid trouble, Inspector,
Mr. Culverton Smith was good enough to give our signal by turning up the
gas. By the way, the prisoner has a small box in the right-hand pocket of
his coat which it would be as well to remove. Thank you. I would handle it
gingerly if I were you. Put it down here. It may play its part in the
trial."
There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron
and a cry of pain.
"You'll only get yourself hurt," said the inspector. "Stand still,
will you?" There was the click of the closing handcuffs.
"A nice trap!" cried the high, snarling voice. "It will bring you
into the dock, Holmes, not me. He asked me to come here to cure him. I was
sorry for him and I came. Now he will pretend, no doubt, that I have said
anything which he may invent which will corroborate his insane suspicions.
You can lie as you like, Holmes. My word is always as good as yours."
"Good heavens!" cried Holmes. "I had totally forgotten him. My dear
Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. To think that I should have
overlooked you! I need not introduce you to Mr. Culverton Smith, since I
understand that you met somewhat earlier in the evening. Have you the cab
below? I will follow you when I am dressed, for I may be of some use at
the station.
"I never needed it more," said Holmes as he refreshed himself with a
glass of claret and some biscuits in the intervals of his toilet.
"However, as you know, my habits are irregular, and such a feat means less
to me than to most men. It was very essential that I should impress Mrs.
Hudson with the reality of my condition, since she was to convey it to
you, and you in turn to him. You won't be offended, Watson? You will
realize that among your many talents dissimulation finds no place, and
that if you had shared my secret you would never have been able to impress
Smith with the urgent necessity of his presence, which was the vital point
of the whole scheme. Knowing his vindictive nature, I was perfectly
certain that he would come to look upon his handiwork."
"But your appearance, Holmes –– your ghastly face?"
"Three days of absolute fast does not improve one's beauty, Watson.
For the rest, there is nothing which a sponge may not cure. With vaseline
upon one's forehead, belladonna in one's eyes, rouge over the cheek-bones,
and crusts of beeswax round one's lips, a very satisfying effect can be
produced. Malingering is a subject upon which I have sometimes thought of
writing a monograph. A little occasional talk about half-crowns, oysters-,
or any other extraneous subject produces a pleasing effect of delirium."
"But why would you not let me near you, since there was in truth no
infection?"
"Can you ask, my dear Watson? Do you imagine that I have no respect
for your medical talents? Could I fancy that your astute judgment would
pass a dying man who, however weak, had no rise of pulse or temperature?
At four yards, I could deceive you. If I failed to do so, who would bring
my Smith within my grasp? No, Watson, I would not touch that box. You can
just see if you look at it sideways where the sharp spring like a viper's
tooth emerges as you open it. I dare say it was by some such device that
poor Savage, who stood between this monster and a reversion, was done to
death. My correspondence, however, is, as you know, a varied one, and I am
somewhat upon my guard against any packages which reach me. It was clear
to me, however, that by pretending that he had really succeeded in his
design I might surprise a confession. That pretence I have carried out
with the thoroughness of the true artist. Thank you, Watson, you must help
me on with my coat. When we have finished at the police-station I think
that something nutritious at Simpson's would not be out of place."
