The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes

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