showed conclusively that death was due to apoplexy.
You see it was quite a simple case after all."
"Oh, remarkably superficial," said Holmes, smiling.
"Come, Watson, I don't think we shall be wanted in
Aldershot any more."
"There's one thing," said I, as we walked down to the
station. "If the husband's name was James, and the
other was Henry, what was this talk about David?"
"That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me
the whole story had I been the ideal reasoner which
you are so fond of depicting. It was evidently a term
of reproach."
"Of reproach?"
"Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know,
and on one occasion in the same direction as Sergeant
James Barclay. You remember the small affair of Uriah
and Bathsheba? My biblical knowledge is a trifle
rusty, I fear, but you will find the story in the
first or second of Samuel."
Adventure VIII
The Resident Patient
Glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of
Memoirs with which I have endeavored to illustrate a
few of the mental peculiarities of my friend Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty
which I have experienced in picking out examples which
shall in every way answer my purpose. For in those
cases in which Holmes has performed some tour de force
of analytical reasoning, and has demonstrated the
value of his peculiar methods of investigation, the
facts themselves have often been so slight or so
commonplace that I could not feel justified in laying
them before the public. On the other hand, it has
frequently happened that he has been concerned in some
research where the facts have been of the most
remarkable and dramatic character, but where the share
which he has himself taken in determining their causes
has been less pronounced than I, as his biographer,
could wish. The small matter which I have chronicled
under the heading of "A Study in Scarlet," and that
other later one connected with the loss of the Gloria
Scott, may serve as examples of this Scylla and
Charybdis which are forever threatening the historian.
It may be that in the business of which I am now about
to write the part which my friend played is not
sufficiently accentuated; and yet the whole train of
circumstances is so remarkable that I cannot bring
myself to omit it entirely from this series.
It had been a close, rainy day in October. Our blinds
were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the sofa,
reading and re-reading a letter which he had received
by the morning post. For myself, my tern of service
in India had trained me to stand heat better than
cold, and a thermometer of 90 was no hardship. But
the paper was uninteresting. Parliament had risen.
Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the
glades of the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea.
A depleted bank account had caused me to postpone my
holiday, and as to my companion, neither the country
nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him.
He loved to lie in the very centre of five millions of
people, with his filaments stretching out and running
through them, responsive to every little rumor or
suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of Nature
found no place among his many gifts, and his only
change was when he turned his mind from the evil-doer
of the town to track down his brother of the country.
Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation,
I had tossed aside the barren paper, and leaning back
in my chair, I fell into a brown study. Suddenly my
companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts.
"You are right, Watson," said he. "It does seem a
very preposterous way of settling a dispute."
"Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then, suddenly
realizing how he had echoed the inmost thought of my
soul, I sat up in my chair and stared at him in blank
amazement.
"What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is beyond
anything which I could have imagined."
He laughed heartily at my perplexity.
"You remember," said he, "that some little time ago,
when I read you the passage in one of Poe's sketches,
in which a close reasoner follows the unspoken thought
of his companion, you were inclined to treat the
matter as a mere tour de force of the author. On my
remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing
the same thing you expressed incredulity."
"Oh, no!"
"Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but
certainly with your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw
down your paper and enter upon a train of thought, I
was very happy to have the opportunity of reading it
off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof
that I had been in rapport with you."
But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example
which you read to me," said I, "the reasoner drew his
conclusions from the actions of the man whom he
observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a
heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on.
But I have been seated quietly in my chair, and what
clews can I have given you?"
"You do yourself an injustice. The features are given
to man as the means by which he shall express his
emotions, and yours are faithful servants."
"Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts
from my features?"
"Your features, and especially your eyes. Perhaps you
cannot yourself recall how your reverie commenced?"
"No, I cannot."
"Then I will tell you. After throwing down your
paper, which was the action which drew my attention to
you, you sat for half a minute with a vacant
expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your
newly-framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by
the alteration in your face that a train of thought
had been started. But it did not lead very far. Your
eyes turned across to the unframed portrait of Henry
Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books.
You then glanced up at the wall, and of course your
meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the
portrait were framed it would just cover that bare
space and correspond with Gordon's picture over
there."
"You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.
"So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your
thoughts went back to Beecher, and you looked hard
across as if you were studying the character in his
features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you
continued to look across, and your face was
thoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of
Beecher's career. I was well aware that you could not
do this without thinking of the mission which he
undertook on behalf of the North at the time of the
Civil War, for I r
emember you expressing your
passionate indignation at the way in which he was
received by the more turbulent of our people. You
felt so strongly about it that I knew you could not
think of Beecher without thinking of that also. When
a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the
picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to
the Civil War, and when I observed that your lips set,
your eyes sparkled, and your hands clinched, I was
positive that you were indeed thinking of the
gallantry which was shown by both sides in that
desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew
sadder; you shook your head. You were dwelling upon
the sadness and horror and useless waste of life.
Your hand stole towards your own old wound, and a
smile quivered on your lips, which showed me that the
ridiculous side of this method of settling
international questions had forced itself upon your
mind. At this point I agreed with you that it was
preposterous, and was glad to find that all my
deductions had been correct."
"Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have
explained it, I confess that I am as amazed as
before."
"It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure
you. I should not have intruded it upon your
attention had you not shown some incredulity the other
day. But the evening has brought a breeze with it.
What do you say to a ramble through London?"
I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly
acquiesced. For three hours we strolled about
together, watching the ever-changing kaleidoscope of
life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and the
Strand. His characteristic talk, with its keen
observance of detail and subtle power of inference
held me amused and enthralled. It was ten o'clock
before we reached Baker Street again. A brougham was
waiting at our door.
"Hum! A doctor's--general practitioner, I perceive,"
said Holmes. "Not been long in practice, but has had
a good deal to do. Come to consult us, I fancy!
Lucky we came back!"
I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes's methods to
be able to follow his reasoning, and to see that the
nature and state of the various medical instruments in
the wicker basket which hung in the lamplight inside
the brougham had given him the data for his swift
deduction. The light in our window above showed that
this late visit was indeed intended for us. With some
curiosity as to what could have sent a brother medico
to us at such an hour, I followed Holmes into our
sanctum.
A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up
from a chair by the fire as we entered. His age may
not have been more than three or four and thirty, but
his haggard expression and unhealthy hue told of a
life which has sapped his strength and robbed him of
his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, like that
of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand
which he laid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that
of an artist rather than of a surgeon. His dress was
quiet and sombre--a black frock-coat, dark trousers,
and a touch of color about his necktie.
"Good-evening, doctor," said Holmes, cheerily. "I am
glad to see that you have only been waiting a very few
minutes."
"You spoke to my coachman, then?"
"No, it was the candle on the side-table that told me.
Pray resume your seat and let me know how I can serve
you."
"My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan," said our visitor,
"and I live at 403 Brook Street."
"Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure
nervous lesions?" I asked.
His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that
his work was known to me.
"I so seldom hear of the work that I thought it was
quite dead," said he. "My publishers gave me a most
discouraging account of its sale. You are yourself, I
presume, a medical man?"
"A retired army surgeon."
"My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I
should wish to make it an absolute specialty, but, of
course, a man must take what he can get at first.
This, however, is beside the question, Mr. Sherlock
Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your time
is. The fact is that a very singular train of events
has occurred recently at my house in Brook Street, and
to-night they came to such a head that I felt it was
quite impossible for me to wait another hour before
asking for your advice and assistance."
Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. "You are
very welcome to both," said he. "Pray let me have a
detailed account of what the circumstances are which
have disturbed you."
"One or two of them are so trivial," said Dr.
Trevelyan, "that really I am almost ashamed to mention
them. But the matter is so inexplicable, and the
recent turn which it has taken is so elaborate, that I
shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge what
is essential and what is not.
"I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my
own college career. I am a London University man, you
know, and I am sure that your will not think that I am
unduly singing my own praises if I say that my student
career was considered by my professors to be a very
promising one. After I had graduated I continued to
devote myself to research, occupying a minor position
in King's College Hospital, and I was fortunate enough
to excite considerable interest by my research into
the pathology of catalepsy, and finally to win the
Bruce Pinkerton prize and medal by the monograph on
nervous lesions to which your friend has just alluded.
I should not go too far if I were to say that there
was a general impression at that time that a
distinguished career lay before me.
"But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of
capital. As you will readily understand, a specialist
who aims high is compelled to start in one of a dozen
streets in the Cavendish Square quarter, all of which
entail enormous rents and furnishing expenses.
Besides this preliminary outlay, he must be prepared
to keep himself for some years, and to hire a
presentable carriage and horse. To do this was quite
beyond my power, and I could only hope that by economy
I might in ten years' time save enough to enable me to
put up my plate. Suddenly, however, an unexpected
incident opened up quite a new prospect to me.
"This was a visit from a gentleman of the name of
Blessington, who was a complete stranger to me. He
came up to my room one morning, and plunged into
business in an instant.
"'You are the same Percy Trevelyan who has had so
distinguished a career and own a great prize lately?'
said he.
/> "I bowed.
"'Answer my frankly,' he continued, 'for you will find
it to your interest to do so. You have all the
cleverness which makes a successful man. Have you the
tact?'
"I could not help smiling at the abruptness of the
question.
"'I trust that I have my share,' I said.
"'Any bad habits? Not drawn towards drink, eh?'
"'Really, sir!' I cried.
"'Quite right! That's all right! But I was bound to
ask. With all these qualities, why are you not in
practice?'
"I shrugged my shoulders.
"'Come, come!' said he, in his bustling way. 'It's
the old story. More in your brains than in your
pocket, eh? What would you say if I were to start you
in Brook Street?'
"I stared at him in astonishment.
"'Oh, it's for my sake, not for yours,' he cried.
'I'll be perfectly frank with you, and if it suits you
it will suit me very well. I have a few thousands to
invest, d'ye see, and I think I'll sink them in you.'
"'But why?' I gasped.
"'Well, it's just like any other speculation, and
safer than most.'
"'What am I to do , then?'
"'I'll tell you. I'll take the house, furnish it, pay
the maids, and run the whole place. All you have to
do is just to wear out your chair in the
consulting-room. I'll let you have pocket-money and
everything. Then you hand over to me three quarters
of what you earn, and you keep the other quarter for
yourself.'
"This was the strange proposal, Mr. Holmes, with which
the man Blessington approached me. I won't weary you
with the account of how we bargained and negotiated.
It ended in my moving into the house next Lady-day,
and starting in practice on very much the same
conditions as he had suggested. He cam himself to
live with me in the character of a resident patient.
His heart was weak, it appears, and he needed constant
medical supervision. He turned the two best rooms of
the first floor into a sitting-room and bedroom for
himself. He was a man of singular habits, shunning
company and very seldom going out. His life was
irregular, but in one respect he was regularity
itself. Every evening, at the same hour, he walked
into the consulting-room, examined the books, put down
five and three-pence for every guinea that I had
earned, and carried the rest off to the strong-box in
his own room.
"I may say with confidence that he never had occasion
to regret his speculation. From the first it was a
success. A few good cases and the reputation which I
had won in the hospital brought me rapidly to the
front, and during the last few years I have made him a
rich man.
"So much, Mr. Holmes, for my past history and my
relations with Mr. Blessington. It only remains for
me now to tell you what has occurred to bring me her
to-night.
"Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me in, as
it seemed to me, a state of considerable agitation.
He spoke of some burglary which, he said, had been
committed in the West End, and he appeared, I
remember, to be quite unnecessarily excited about it,
declaring that a day should not pass before we should
add stronger bolts to our windows and doors. For a
week he continued to be in a peculiar state of
restlessness, peering continually out of the windows,
and ceasing to take the short walk which had usually
been the prelude to his dinner. From his manner it
struck me that he was in mortal dread of something or
somebody, but when I questioned him upon the point he
became so offensive that I was compelled to drop the
subject. Gradually, as time passed, his fears
appeared to die away, and he had renewed his former
habits, when a fresh event reduced him to the pitiable
state of prostration in which he now lies.
"What happened was this. Two days ago I received the
letter which I now read to you. Neither address nor
date is attached to it.
"'A Russian nobleman who is now resident in England,'
it runs, 'would be glad to avail himself of the
professional assistance of Dr. Percy Trevelyan. He
has been for some years a victim to cataleptic
attacks, on which, as is well known, Dr. Trevelyan is
an authority. He proposes to call at about quarter