PREFACE His Last Bow
The friends of Mr. Sherlock Holmes
will be glad to learn that he is still alive and well, though somewhat crippled
by occasional attacks of rheumatism. He has, for many years, lived in a small
farm upon the downs five miles from Eastbourne, where his time is divided between
philosophy and agriculture. During this period of rest he has refused the most
princely offers to take up various cases, having determined that his retirement
was a permanent one. The approach of the German war caused him however, to lay
his remarkable combination of intellectual and practical activity at the disposal
of the government, with historical results which are recounted in His Last Bow.
Several previous experiences which have lain long in my portfolio have been added
to His Last Bow so as to complete the volume.
JOHN H. WATSON, M. D.
The Adventure of the Dying Detective
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's 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 humor 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 nonconductor? 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 watch-pocket And all the rest
of your money in your left trouser pocket 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 cannot 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 babbling 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 rumor 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 tomorrow. 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 gelatin 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-delirious
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, labored 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 cheekbones,
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 pretense 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 Symposia's would not be out of place."