The Resident Patient

Arthur Conan Doyle

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 term 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.

I cannot be sure of the exact date, for some of my memoranda upon the matter have been mislaid, but it must have been towards the end of the first year during which Holmes and I shared chambers in Baker Street. It was boisterous October weather, and we had both remained indoors all day, I because I feared with my shaken health to face the keen autumn wind, while he was deep in some of those abstruse chemical investigations which absorbed him utterly as long as he was engaged upon them. Towards evening, however, the breaking of a test-tube brought his research to a premature ending, and he sprang up from his chair with an exclamation of impatience and a clouded brow.

“A day's work ruined, Watson,” said he, striding across to the window. “Ha! The stars are out and he wind has fallen. 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 you 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 won a great prize lately?’ said he.

“I bowed.

“‘Answer me 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 came 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 here 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 past six to-morrow evening, if Dr. Trevelyan will make it convenient to be at home.’

“This letter interested me deeply, because the chief difficulty in the study of catalepsy is the rareness of the disease. You may believe, than, that I was in my consulting-room when, at the appointed hour, the page showed in the patient.

He was an elderly man, thin, demure, and common-place—by no means the conception one forms of a Russian nobleman. I was much more struck by the appearance of his companion. This was a tall young man, surprisingly handsome, with a dark, fierce face, and the limbs and chest of a Hercules. He had his hand under the other's arm as they entered, and helped him to a chair with a tenderness which one would hardly have expected from his appearance.

“‘You will excuse my coming in, doctor,’ said he to me, speaking English with a slight lisp. ‘This is my father, and his health is a matter of the most overwhelming importance to me.’

“I was touched by this filial anxiety. ‘You would, perhaps, care to remain during the consultation?’ said I.

“‘Not for the world,’ he cried with a gesture of horror. ‘It is more painful to me than I can express. If I were to see my father in one of these dreadful seizures I am convinced that I should never survive it. My own nervous system is an exceptionally sensitive one. With your permission, I will remain in the waiting-room while you go into my father's case.’

“To this, of course, I assented, and the young man withdrew. The patient and I then plunged into a discussion of his case, of which I took exhaustive notes. He was not remarkable for intelligence, and his answers were frequently obscure, which I attributed to his limited acquaintance with our language. Suddenly, however, as I sat writing, he ceased to give any answer at all to my inquiries, and on my turning towards him I was shocked to see that he was sitting bolt upright in his chair, staring at me with a perfectly blank and rigid face. He was again in the grip of his mysterious malady.

“My first feeling, as I have just said, was one of pity and horror. My second, I fear, was rather one of professional satisfaction. I made notes of my patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity of his muscles, and examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly abnormal in any of these conditions, which harmonized with my former experiences. I had obtained good results in such cases by the inhalation of nitrite of amyl, and the present seemed an admirable opportunity of testing its virtues. The bottle was downstairs in my laboratory, so leaving my patient seated in his chair, I ran down to get it. There was some little delay in finding it—five minutes, let us say—and then I returned. Imagine my amazement to find the room empty and the patient gone.

“Of course, my first act was to run into the waiting-room. The son had gone also. The hall door had been closed, but not shut. My page who admits patients is a new boy and by no means quick. He waits downstairs, and runs up to show patients out when I ring the consulting-room bell. He had heard nothing, and the affair remained a complete mystery. Mr. Blessington came in from his walk shortly afterwards, but I did not say anything to him upon the subject, for, to tell the truth, I have got in the way of late of holding as little communication with him as possible.

“Well, I never thought that I should see anything more of the Russian and his son, so you can imagine my amazement when, at the very same hour this evening, they both came marching into my consulting-room, just as they had done before.

“‘I feel that I owe you a great many apologies for my abrupt departure yesterday, doctor,’ said my patient.

“‘I confess that I was very much surprised at it,’ said I.

“‘Well, the fact is,’ he remarked, ‘that when I recover from these attacks my mind is always very clouded as to all that has gone before. I woke up in a strange room, as it seemed to me, and made my way out into the street in a sort of dazed way when you were absent.’

“‘And I,’ said the son, ‘seeing my father pass the door of the waiting-room, naturally thought that the consultation had come to an end. It was not until we had reached home that I began to realize the true state of affairs.’

“‘Well,’ said I, laughing, ‘there is no harm done except that you puzzled me terribly; so if you, sir, would kindly step into the waiting-room I shall be happy to continue our consultation which was brought to so abrupt an ending.’

“For half an hour or so I discussed that old gentleman's symptoms with him, and then, having prescribed for him, I saw him go off upon the arm of his son.

“I have told you that Mr. Blessington generally chose this hour of the day for his exercise. He came in shortly afterwards and passed upstairs. An instant later I heard him running down, and he burst into my consulting-room like a man who is mad with panic.

“‘Who has been in my room?’ he cried.

“‘No one,’ said I.

“‘It's a lie!’ He yelled. ‘Come up and look!’

“I passed over the grossness of his language, as he seemed half out of his mind with fear. When I went upstairs with him he pointed to several footprints upon the light carpet.

“‘D'you mean to say those are mine?’ he cried.

“They were certainly very much larger than any which he could have made, and were evidently quite fresh. It rained hard this afternoon, as you know, and my patients were the only people who called. It must have been the case, then, that the man in the waiting-room had, for some unknown reason, while I was busy with the other, ascended to the room of my resident patient. Nothing has been touched or taken, but there were the footprints to prove that the intrusion was an undoubted fact.

“Mr. Blessington seemed more excited over the matter than I should have thought possible, though of course it was enough to disturb anybody's peace of mind. He actually sat crying in an arm-chair, and I could hardly get him to speak coherently. It was his suggestion that I should come round to you, and of course I at once saw the propriety of it, for certainly the incident is a very singular one, though he appears to completely overrate its importance. If you would only come back with me in my brougham, you would at least be able to soothe him, though I can hardly hope that you will be able to explain this remarkable occurrence.”

Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative with an intentness which showed me that his interest was keenly aroused. His face was as impassive as ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily over his eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly from his pipe to emphasize each curious episode in the doctor's tale. As our visitor concluded, Holmes sprang up without a word, handed me my hat, picked his own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the door. Within a quarter of an hour we had been dropped at the door of the physician's residence in Brook Street, one of those sombre, flat-faced houses which one associates with a West-End practice. A small page admitted us, and we began at once to ascend the broad, well-carpeted stair.

But a singular interruption brought us to a standstill. The light at the top was suddenly whisked out, and from the darkness came a reedy, quivering voice.

“I have a pistol,” it cried. “I give you my word that I'll fire if you come any nearer.”

“This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington,” cried Dr. Trevelyan.

“Oh, then it is you, doctor,” said the voice, with a great heave of relief. “But those other gentlemen, are they what they pretend to be?”

We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the darkness.

“Yes, yes, it's all right,” said the voice at last. “You can come up, and I am sorry if my precautions have annoyed you.”

He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before us a singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice, testified to his jangled nerves. He was very fat, but had apparently at some time been much fatter, so that the skin hung about his face in loose pouches, like the cheeks of a blood-hound. He was of a sickly color, and his thin, sandy hair seemed to bristle up with the intensity of his emotion. In his hand he held a pistol, but he thrust it into his pocket as we advanced.

“Good-evening, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “I am sure I am very much obliged to you for coming round. No one ever needed your advice more than I do. I suppose that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Who are these two men Mr. Blessington, and why do they wish to molest you?”

“Well, well,” said the resident patient, in a nervous fashion, “of course it is hard to say that. You can hardly expect me to answer that, Mr. Holmes.”

“Do you mean that you don't know?”

“Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness to step in here.”

He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and comfortably furnished.

“You see that,” said he, pointing to a big black box at the end of his bed. “I have never been a very rich man, Mr. Holmes—never made but one investment in my life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I don't believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr. Holmes. Between ourselves, what little I have is in that box, so you can understand what it means to me when unknown people force themselves into my rooms.”

Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way and shook his head.

“I cannot possibly advise you if you try to deceive me,” said he.

“But I have told you everything.”

Holmes turned on his heel with a gesture of disgust. “Good-night, Dr. Trevelyan,” said he.

“And no advice for me?” cried Blessington, in a breaking voice.

“My advice to your, sir, is to speak the truth.”

A minute later we were in the street and walking for home. We had crossed Oxford Street and were half way down Harley Street before I could get a word from my companion.

“Sorry to bring you out on such a fool's errand, Watson,” he said at last. “It is an interesting case, too, at the bottom of it.”

“I can make little of it,” I confessed.

“Well, it is quite evident that there are two men—more, perhaps, but at least two—who are determined for some reason to get at this fellow Blessington. I have no doubt in my mind that both on the first and on the second occasion that young man penetrated to Blessington's room, while his confederate, by an ingenious device, kept the doctor from interfering.”

“And the catalepsy?”

“A fraudulent imitation, Watson, though I should hardly dare to hint as much to our specialist. It is a very easy complaint to imitate. I have done it myself.”

“And then?”

“By the purest chance Blessington was out on each occasion. Their reason for choosing so unusual an hour for a consultation was obviously to insure that there should be no other patient in the waiting-room. It just happened, however, that this hour coincided with Blessington's constitutional, which seems to show that they were not very well acquainted with his daily routine. Of course, if they had been merely after plunder they would at least have made some attempt to search for it. Besides, I can read in a man's eye when it is his own skin that he is frightened for. It is inconceivable that this fellow could have made two such vindictive enemies as these appear to be without knowing of it. I hold it, therefore, to be certain that he does know who these men are, and that for reasons of his own he suppresses it. It is just possible that to-morrow may find him in a more communicative mood.”

“Is there not one alternative,” I suggested, “grotesquely improbably, no doubt, but still just conceivable? Might the whole story of the cataleptic Russian and his son be a concoction of Dr. Trevelyan's, who has, for his own purposes, been in Blessington's rooms?”

I saw in the gaslight that Holmes wore an amused smile at this brilliant departure of mine.

“My dear fellow,” said he, “it was one of the first solutions which occurred to me, but I was soon able to corroborate the doctor's tale. This young man has left prints upon the stair-carpet which made it quite superfluous for me to ask to see those which he had made in the room. When I tell you that his shoes were square-toed instead of being pointed like Blessington's, and were quite an inch and a third longer than the doctor's, you will acknowledge that there can be no doubt as to his individuality. But we may sleep on it now, for I shall be surprised if we do not hear something further from Brook Street in the morning.”

Sherlock Holmes's prophecy was soon fulfilled, and in a dramatic fashion. At half-past seven next morning, in the first glimmer of daylight, I found him standing by my bedside in his dressing-gown.

“There's a brougham waiting for us, Watson,” said he.

“What's the matter, then?”

“The Brook Street business.”

“Any fresh news?”

“Tragic, but ambiguous,” said he, pulling up the blind. “Look at this—a sheet from a note-book, with ‘For God's sake come at once—P. T.,’ scrawled upon it in pencil. Our friend, the doctor, was hard put to it when he wrote this. Come along, my dear fellow, for it's an urgent call.”

In a quarter of an hour or so we were back at the physician's house. He came running out to meet us with a face of horror.

“Oh, such a business!” he cried, with his hands to his temples.

“What then?”

“Blessington has committed suicide!”

Holmes whistled.

“Yes, he hanged himself during the night.”

We had entered, and the doctor had preceded us into what was evidently his waiting-room.

“I really hardly know what I am doing,” he cried. “The police are already upstairs. It has shaken me most dreadfully.”

“When did you find it out?”

“He has a cup of tea taken in to him early every morning. When the maid entered, about seven, there the unfortunate fellow was hanging in the middle of the room. He had tied his cord to the hook on which the heavy lamp used to hang, and he had jumped off from the top of the very box that he showed us yesterday.”

Holmes stood for a moment in deep thought.

“With your permission,” said he at last, “I should like to go upstairs and look into the matter.”

We both ascended, followed by the doctor.

It was a dreadful sight which met us as we entered the bedroom door. I have spoken of the impression of flabbiness which this man Blessington conveyed. As he dangled from the hook it was exaggerated and intensified until he was scarce human in his appearance. The neck was drawn out like a plucked chicken's, making the rest of him seem the more obese and unnatural by the contrast. He was clad only in his long night-dress, and his swollen ankles and ungainly feet protruded starkly from beneath it. Beside him stood a smart-looking police-inspector, who was taking notes in a pocket-book.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” said he, heartily, as my friend entered, “I am delighted to see you.”

“Good-morning, Lanner,” answered Holmes; “you won't think me an intruder, I am sure. Have you heard of the events which led up to this affair?”

“Yes, I heard something of them.”

“Have you formed any opinion?”

“As far as I can see, the man has been driven out of his senses by fright. The bed has been well slept in, you see. There's his impression deep enough. It's about five in the morning, you know, that suicides are most common. That would be about his time for hanging himself. It seems to have been a very deliberate affair.”

“I should say that he has been dead about three hours, judging by the rigidity of the muscles,” said I.

“Noticed anything peculiar about the room?” asked Holmes.

“Found a screw-driver and some screws on the wash-hand stand. Seems to have smoked heavily during the night, too. Here are four cigar-ends that I picked out of the fireplace.”

“Hum!” said Holmes, “have you got his cigar-holder?”

“No, I have seen none.”

“His cigar-case, then?”

“Yes, it was in his coat-pocket.”

Holmes opened it and smelled the single cigar which it contained.

“Oh, this is an Havana, and these others are cigars of the peculiar sort which are imported by the Dutch from their East Indian colonies. They are usually wrapped in straw, you know, and are thinner for their length than any other brand.” He picked up the four ends and examined them with his pocket-lens.

“Two of these have been smoked from a holder and two without,” said he. “Two have been cut by a not very sharp knife, and two have had the ends bitten off by a set of excellent teeth. This is no suicide, Mr. Lanner. It is a very deeply planned and cold-blooded murder.”

“Impossible!” cried the inspector.

“And why?”

“Why should any one murder a man in so clumsy a fashion as by hanging him?”

“That is what we have to find out.”

“How could they get in?”

“Through the front door.”

“It was barred in the morning.”

“Then it was barred after them.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw their traces. Excuse me a moment, and I may be able to give you some further information about it.”

He went over to the door, and turning the lock he examined it in his methodical way. Then he took out the key, which was on the inside, and inspected that also. The bed, the carpet, the chairs the mantelpiece, the dead body, and the rope were each in turn examined, until at last he professed himself satisfied, and with my aid and that of the inspector cut down the wretched object and laid it reverently under a sheet.

“How about this rope?” he asked.

“It is cut off this,” said Dr. Trevelyan, drawing a large coil from under the bed. “He was morbidly nervous of fire, and always kept this beside him, so that he might escape by the window in case the stairs were burning.”

“That must have saved them trouble,” said Holmes, thoughtfully. “Yes, the actual facts are very plain, and I shall be surprised if by the afternoon I cannot give you the reasons for them as well. I will take this photograph of Blessington, which I see upon the mantelpiece, as it may help me in my inquiries.”

“But you have told us nothing!” cried the doctor.

“Oh, there can be no doubt as to the sequence of events,” said Holmes. “There were three of them in it: the young man, the old man, and a third, to whose identity I have no clue. The first two, I need hardly remark, are the same who masqueraded as the Russian count and his son, so we can give a very full description of them. They were admitted by a confederate inside the house. If I might offer you a word of advice, Inspector, it would be to arrest the page, who, as I understand, has only recently come into your service, Doctor.”

“The young imp cannot be found,” said Dr. Trevelyan; “the maid and the cook have just been searching for him.”

Holmes shrugged his shoulders.

“He has played a not unimportant part in this drama,” said he. “The three men having ascended the stairs, which they did on tiptoe, the elder man first, the younger man second, and the unknown man in the rear—”

“My dear Holmes!” I ejaculated.

“Oh, there could be no question as to the superimposing of the footmarks. I had the advantage of learning which was which last night. They ascended, then, to Mr. Blessington's room, the door of which they found to be locked. With the help of a wire, however, they forced round the key. Even without the lens you will perceive, by the scratches on this ward, where the pressure was applied.

“On entering the room their first proceeding must have been to gag Mr. Blessington. He may have been asleep, or he may have been so paralyzed with terror as to have been unable to cry out. These walls are thick, and it is conceivable that his shriek, if he had time to utter one, was unheard.

“Having secured him, it is evident to me that a consultation of some sort was held. Probably it was something in the nature of a judicial proceeding. It must have lasted for some time, for it was then that these cigars were smoked. The older man sat in that wicker chair; it was he who used the cigar-holder. The younger man sat over yonder; he knocked his ash off against the chest of drawers. The third fellow paced up and down. Blessington, I think, sat upright in the bed, but of that I cannot be absolutely certain.

“Well, it ended by their taking Blessington and hanging him. The matter was so prearranged that it is my belief that they brought with them some sort of block or pulley which might serve as a gallows. That screw-driver and those screws were, as I conceive, for fixing it up. Seeing the hook, however they naturally saved themselves the trouble. Having finished their work they made off, and the door was barred behind them by their confederate.”

We had all listened with the deepest interest to this sketch of the night's doings, which Holmes had deduced from signs so subtle and minute that, even when he had pointed them out to us, we could scarcely follow him in his reasoning. The inspector hurried away on the instant to make inquiries about the page, while Holmes and I returned to Baker Street for breakfast.

“I'll be back by three,” said he, when we had finished our meal. “Both the inspector and the doctor will meet me here at that hour, and I hope by that time to have cleared up any little obscurity which the case may still present.”

Our visitors arrived at the appointed time, but it was a quarter to four before my friend put in an appearance. From his expression as he entered, however, I could see that all had gone well with him.

“Any news, Inspector?”

“We have got the boy, sir.”

“Excellent, and I have got the men.”

“You have got them!” we cried, all three.

“Well, at least I have got their identity. This so-called Blessington is, as I expected, well known at headquarters, and so are his assailants. Their names are Biddle, Hayward, and Moffat.”

“The Worthingdon bank gang,” cried the inspector.

“Precisely,” said Holmes.

“Then Blessington must have been Sutton.”

“Exactly,” said Holmes.

“Why, that makes it as clear as crystal,” said the inspector.

But Trevelyan and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

“You must surely remember the great Worthingdon bank business,” said Holmes. “Five men were in it—these four and a fifth called Cartwright. Tobin, the care-taker, was murdered, and the thieves got away with seven thousand pounds. This was in 1875. They were all five arrested, but the evidence against them was by no means conclusive. This Blessington or Sutton, who was the worst of the gang, turned informer. On his evidence Cartwright was hanged and the other three got fifteen years apiece. When they got out the other day, which was some years before their full term, they set themselves, as you perceive, to hunt down the traitor and to avenge the death of their comrade upon him. Twice they tried to get at him and failed; a third time, you see, it came off. Is there anything further which I can explain, Dr. Trevelyan?”

“I think you have made it all remarkable clear,” said the doctor. “No doubt the day on which he was perturbed was the day when he had seen of their release in the newspapers.”

“Quite so. His talk about a burglary was the merest blind.”

“But why could he not tell you this?”

“Well, my dear sir, knowing the vindictive character of his old associates, he was trying to hide his own identity from everybody as long as he could. His secret was a shameful one, and he could not bring himself to divulge it. However, wretch as he was, he was still living under the shield of British law, and I have no doubt, Inspector, that you will see that, though that shield may fail to guard, the sword of justice is still there to avenge.”

Such were the singular circumstances in connection with the Resident Patient and the Brook Street Doctor. From that night nothing has been seen of the three murderers by the police, and it is surmised at Scotland Yard that they were among the passengers of the ill-fated steamer Norah Creina, which was lost some years ago with all hands upon the Portuguese coast, some leagues to the north of Oporto. The proceedings against the page broke down for want of evidence, and the Brook Street Mystery, as it was called, has never until now been fully dealt with in any public print.

住院的病人

我粗略地看了看一连串内容不连贯的回忆录，想用它们来阐明我朋友歇洛克-福尔摩斯先生智力上的一些特点，但却觉得很难挑出我所需要的例子。因为在侦破这些案子的过程中，福尔摩斯虽然运用了他那分析推理的巧妙手法，证实了他那独特的调查研究方法的重要，但案件本身，却往往微不足道，平凡无奇，我觉得实在不值得向读者介绍。另一方面，也经常发生这样一种情况，他参与调查了一些案情离奇、富有戏剧一性一的案子，但他在侦破过程中所起的作用，却又不能满足我这给他写传记的人的愿望。我曾经记述过一件小小的案子，题目是《血字的研究》，后来又有另一个有关“格洛里亚斯科特”号三桅帆船失事案，都是能作为使历史学家永远感到惊奇的岩礁与漩涡［岩礁与漩涡：意大利墨西拿海峡上的岩礁，它的对面有大漩涡。此处作者用来形容惊险——译者注］的例子。现在我要记载的这件案子，在侦破案件中我的朋友虽然没有起到十分重要的作用，但整个案情却很稀奇古怪，我觉得实在不能够遗漏不记。

那是七月里一个闷热的一陰一雨天，我们的窗帘放下了一半，福尔摩斯蜷卧在沙发上，把早晨接到的一封信读了又读。由于我在印度服过兵役，使我养成了怕冷不怕热的一习一惯，因而寒暑表虽已到了华氏九十度，我也毫不觉得难受。不过这天的报纸实在乏味。议会已经休会，人们都离开了城市。我渴望到新森林中的空地或南海的铺满一卵一石的海滩一游。但因我的存款拮据，我推迟了假期。而对我的伙伴来说，无论是乡下或是海滨，都丝毫不能引起他的兴趣。他只喜欢混迹于五百万人口的中心，对他们中间关于悬而未决的案件的每一个小小的传闻或猜疑特别关心。他对于欣赏大自然，却丝毫不感兴趣。而他唯一的改变，是去看望他在乡间的哥哥。

我发现福尔摩斯正全神贯注，顾不得说话，我便把那枯燥无味的报纸扔到一旁，背靠着椅子，陷入了沉思。忽然我的伙伴的说话声打断了我的思绪。

“你想得不错，华生，”福尔摩斯说道，“用这种方法解决争端，看来太荒谬了。”

“太荒谬了！”我大声说道，猛然想到，他怎么能觉察出我内心深处的思想呢？我坐直了身一子，茫然不解地惊视着他。

“这是怎么回事？福尔摩斯，”我喊道，“这实在太出乎我意料了。”

福尔摩斯看到我这种茫然不解的神情，放声大笑起来。

“你记得不久以前，”他说道，“我曾给你读过一段一爱一伦-坡写的故事，他在那段故事里讲到一个严密的推理者竟能察觉他的同伴未讲出来的思想，你当时认为这件事纯属作者巧妙的虚构。当我提出，我往往也一习一惯这样做时，你却表示怀疑。”

“我没有说啊！”

“也许你没有说出口，我亲一爱一的华生。但从你的眉宇间可以看出来。因此，当我看见你把报纸扔下，陷入沉思，便很高兴有机会研究你的思想，最后把你的思绪打断，以便证明我正猜中了你的想法。”

可是我对他的解释依然不满足。

“在你给我读的故事中，”我说道，“那个推理者是根据观察那个人的动作而得出结论的。如果我记得不错的话，那个人被一堆石头绊了一下，抬头看了看星星，还有一些别的动作。可是我安然不动地坐在椅子上，能给你提供什么线索呢？”

“你对你自己判断错了。人的五官是表达感情的工具，而你的五官更是忠实执行这一职责的仆役。”

“你的意思是说，你从我的面容上看出了我一系列的思想？”

“从你的面容，特别是你的眼睛。或许你自己已经记不得你是怎样陷入沉思的了？”

“对，我记不得了。”

“那么，我来告诉你。你扔下报纸，这个动作就引起了我对你的注意。之后，你茫然地在那里坐了有半分钟的样子。后来你的眼睛凝视着你那张新配上镜框的戈登将军肖像，我从你面部表情的改变，看出你已经开始想事了。可是你想得并不很远。接着你的眼光又转到你书架上那张没装镜框的亨利-沃德-比彻的画像上。然后，你又朝上看着墙，当然你的意图是很明显的。你是在想，如果这张画像也配上镜框，那就正好可以挂在这墙上的空处，和那张戈登像并排挂在一起了。”

“你真是紧紧地追随着我的思想！”我惊叫道。

“我至今还没怎么弄错过呢。接着你的思想又回到比彻的身上，你全神贯注地凝视着他的肖像，似乎正是从他的面貌上研究他的一性一格。后来你不再皱眉头了，可是继续凝视着，你的脸上现出沉思的样子，可见你在回想着比彻经历的事件。我确信你这时不能不联想到他在内战期间代表北方所担当的使命，因为我记得你曾经对他的遭遇表示非常愤慨。你对这件事感受非常强烈，因此，我知道你想到比彻时也不能不想到这些。过了一会，我看到你的视线从画像上移开了，我觉得你的思想又转到内战上去了。当我发现你双一唇紧闭，双目炯炯发光，两手紧一握，我确信你正在想双方在这场你死我活的激战中所表现的英勇气概。可是，你的脸色又渐渐一陰一沉起来，你摇了摇头。你是在想战争的悲惨、可怕以及徒然死伤了许多人。你的一只手慢慢地移到你自己的旧伤疤上，双一唇上泛出一丝微笑，我便看出，你当时在想，这样解决国际问题的方法实在荒谬可笑。在这点上，我同意你的看法，这是非常荒谬的，我很高兴知道，我这一切推论都是正确的。”

“完全正确！”我说道，“现在你已经解释清楚了，我承认我象以前一样感到惊讶。”

“这是非常肤浅的，我亲一爱一的华生，我向你保证。要不是那天你表示某些怀疑的话，我决不会打断你的思路的。不过今晚微风轻拂，我们一起到伦敦街上散散步，你看怎样？”

我对我们这间小小的起居室已经感到厌倦，便欣然同意了。我们一起在舰队街和河滨遛了三个小时，观赏着人生的宛如潮汐、千变万化的情景。福尔摩斯独特的议论，对细节敏锐的观察力和巧妙的推理能力，使我极感兴趣，听得入了迷。我们返回贝克街时，已经十点钟了。一辆四轮桥式马车正等候在我们寓所的门前。

“哈！我看，这是一位医生的马车，是一位普通医生，”福尔摩斯说道，“刚开业不久，不过他的生意还不错。我想，他是来找我们商量事情的。我们回来得真巧！”

我深知福尔摩斯的调查方法，善于领会他的推理。车内灯下挂着一只柳条篮子，里面装着各种各样的医疗器械，我知道福尔摩斯正是根据这些医疗器械的种类和状况，迅速作出了判断。从楼上我们窗户的灯光可以看出，这位夜晚的来访者确实是来找我们的。我心里有些奇怪：什么事竟使一位同行在这样的时刻来找我们呢？我紧随福尔摩斯走近我们的寓所。

一个面色苍白、尖瘦脸、长着土黄色络腮一胡一子的人，看到我们进来，从壁炉旁一把椅子上站起来。他的年纪至多三十三、四岁，但他面容憔悴，气色不好，说明生活耗尽了他的一精一力，夺去了他的青春。他的举止羞怯腼腆，象一位十分敏一感的绅士，而他站起来时，扶在壁炉台上的那只细瘦白皙的手，不象是一个外科医生的，却象是一个艺术家的。他的衣着朴素暗淡——一件黑礼服大衣，深色裤子和一条颜色不甚鲜艳的领带。

“晚安，医生，”福尔摩斯爽朗地说道，“我知道你仅仅等了我们几分钟，我很高兴。”

“那么，你和我的车夫谈过了？”

“没有，我是从旁边那张桌子上放着的蜡烛看出来的。请坐，请告诉我，你有什么事要找我。”

“我是珀西-特里维廉医生，”我们的来访者说道，“住在布鲁克街四○三号。”

“你不是《原因不明的神经损伤》那篇论文的作者吗？”我问道。

他听说我知道他的著作，高兴得苍白的双颊泛出红晕。

“我很少听人谈到这部著作，出版商向我说，这本书销路不广，我还以为没有人知道它呢，”来访者说道，“我想，你也是一位医生吧？”

“我是一个退役的外科军医。”

“我对神经病学很感兴趣。我很希望能够对它进行专门研究，不过，一个人当然必须从事他首先能够着手的工作。可是，这是题外话了。歇洛克-福尔摩斯先生，我知道，你的时间是多么宝贵。在布鲁克街我的寓所里，最近发生了一连串非常奇怪的事情。今晚，这些事情已经到了非常严重的关头，我感到实在不能再耽误了，必须马上来请你出出主意，帮个忙。”

歇洛克-福尔摩斯坐下来，点起了烟斗。

“你要我出主意、帮忙，我非常欢迎。”福尔摩斯说道，“请把那些使你感到不安的事情，详细地讲给我听听。”

“其中有一两点是不值得说的，”特里维廉说道，“我提到这些，实在觉得惭愧。不过这件事令人非常莫名其妙，而近来变得更加复杂，我只好把一切都摆在你面前，请你取其一精一华，去其糟粕。

“首先，我不得不谈谈我大学生活中的某些事情。我曾是一个伦敦大学的学生，我相信，如果我告诉你们，我的教授认为我是一个很有前途的学生，你们不会认为我是过于自吹自擂吧。毕业以后，我在皇家大学附属医院担任了一个不甚重要的职务，继续致力于研究工作。我很幸运，我对强直一性一昏厥病理的研究引起了人们极大的兴趣，我写了一篇你的朋友刚才提到的关于神经损伤的专题论文，终于获得了布鲁斯-平克顿奖金和奖章。我毫不夸张地说，那时人们都认为我前程远大。

“可是我最大的障碍就是缺乏资金。你不难知道，一个专家要想出名的话，就必须在卡文迪什广场区十二条大街中的一条街上开业。这就需要巨额房租和设备费。除了这笔创办费用，他还必须准备能维持自己几年生活的钱款，还得租一辆象样的马车和马。要达到这些要求，实在是我力所不及的。

我只能期望节衣缩食，用十年的时间积蓄，才能挂牌行医。然而，突然一件意料不到的事情给我开辟了一个全新的境界。

“这就是一位名叫布莱星顿的绅士的来访。布莱星顿和我素不相识，一天早晨他突然走进我房里，开门见山地谈到他的来意。

“‘你就是那位取得卓越成就，最近获奖的珀西-特里维廉先生吗？’他说道。

“我点了点头。

“‘请坦率地回答我的问题，’他继续说道，‘你会看到这样做对你是有好处的。你非常有才华，会成为一个有造就的人。你明白吗？’“听到这样突如其来的问题，我不由得笑了起来。

“‘我相信我会尽力而为的，’我说道。

“‘你有不一良嗜好吗？不酗酒吗？’“‘没有，先生！’我大声说道。

“‘太好了！这太好了！不过我必须问问，你既然有这些本事，为什么不开业行医呢？’“我耸了耸肩。

“‘是啊，是啊！’他赶忙说，‘这是毫不足怪的。虽然你脑子里装的东西很多，可是口袋里却一无所有，对不对？要是我帮你在布鲁克街开业，你的意见如何？’

“我惊异地两眼盯着他。

“‘啊，这是为了我自己的利益，并不是为了你，’他大声说道，‘我对你十分坦率，如果这对你合适的话，那对我就更加合适了。我有几千镑准备投资，你知道，我认为我可以投资给你。”

“‘那为什么呢？’我忙问道。

“‘啊，这正象别的投机事业一样，不过比较更保险一些。’

“‘那么，我该做些什么事呢？’

“‘我自然要告诉你的。我要替你租房子，置家具，雇女仆，管理一切。你要做的只是坐在诊室里看病。我给你零用钱和一切需用的东西。然后你把你赚的钱一交一给我四分之三，剩下的四分之一，你自己留着。’

“这就是那个叫布莱星顿的人向我提出的奇怪的建议，福尔摩斯先生，我不再叙述我们怎样协商、成一交一的事，以免使你厌烦。结果是，我在报喜节［报喜节：每年三月二十五日为报喜节，报喜天使加百列将耶稣降生告知圣母玛利亚的节日——译者注］搬进了这个寓所，并按他所提出的条件开始营业。他自己也搬来同我住在一起，做一个住院的病人。他的心脏衰弱，显然，他需要经常治疗。他自己住用了二楼两间最好的房子，一间用作起居室，一间用作卧室，他脾气古怪，深居简出，闭门谢客。他的生活很不规律，但就某一方面而言，却又极其有规律。在每天晚上的同一时刻，他都到我的诊室来检查账目。我赚的诊费，每一畿尼他给我留五先令三便士［一畿尼为二十一先令，一先令为十二便士，四分之一畿尼正好是五先令三便士——译者注］，其余的他全部拿走，放到他自己屋内的保险箱里。

“我可以非常自信地说，对这项投机生意，他永远也用不着后悔。一开始，生意就很成功。我出色地处理了几个病例和我在附属医院的声望，使我很快就出了名，近几年来，我使他变成了一个富翁。

“福尔摩斯先生，我过去的经历以及和布莱星顿先生的关系，就是这些。我要告诉你的，现在只剩下一个问题，就是发生了什么事使我今晚来此求教。

“几星期之前，布莱星顿先生下楼来找我。我似乎觉得，他的心情异常激动。他提到在伦敦西区发生了一些盗窃案，我记得，他当时显然毫无必要那么激动，他声明说，我们应当把门窗加固闩牢，一天也不能耽误。在这一星期里，他坐立不安，不断向窗外张望，就连他午餐前一习一以为常的短暂的散步，也停止了。他的一举一动给我一个印象，他对什么事或是什么人怕得要死，可是当我向他问到这件事时，他变得非常无礼，于是我就不再谈这件事了。时间一天一天地过去，他的恐惧似乎逐渐消失了，他又恢复了常态。可是新近发生的一件事情，又使他处于目前这种可怜而又可鄙的虚弱状态。

“事情是这样的：两天以前，我收到一封信，我现在就把它读给你听，信上既没有地址，也没有日期。

“一位侨居在英国的俄罗斯贵族（信上这样写着），亟愿到珀西-特里维廉医生处就医。几年来他深受强直一性一昏厥病的折磨，而特里维廉医生在医治这种病症方面是人所共知的权威。他准备明晚六点一刻左右前往就诊，如果特里维廉医生方便，请在家等候。’

“这封信使我深感兴趣。因为对强直症进行研究的主要困难在于这种疾病是罕见的。你可以相信，当小听差在指定的时间领进病人时，我正等候在我的诊室里。

“他是一位身材瘦小的老人，异常拘谨，而且很平凡——不象是一个人们想象中的俄罗斯贵族。他同伴的相貌给我的印象却很深。这是一个高大的年轻人，面色黝一黑，漂亮得惊人，却带着一副凶相，有一副赫拉克勒斯［赫拉克勒斯：希腊神话中主神宙斯之子，力大无穷——译者注］的肢一体和胸膛。他们进来时，他用手搀着老人的一只胳膊，把老人扶到椅子跟前，表现得那样体贴入微，从他的外表你是很难料到他会这样作的。

“‘医生，请原谅我冒昧前来，’他用英语对我说道，说时有些口齿不清，‘这是我父亲，他的健康，对我来说，是极为重要的事。’

“我见他这样孝顺，深受感动。‘或许，在诊治时，你愿意留在诊室里吧？’我说。

“‘绝对不行，’他惊叫起来，‘我受不了这种痛苦。如果我看到我父亲疾病发作时那种可怕的样子，我相信我是忍受不了的。我自己的神经官能也十分敏一感。你如允许，在你给我父亲诊治时，我可以在候诊室里等候。’

“我当然同意这样做，年轻人便离开了。我和病人便开始研究他的病情，我把它详尽无遗地记了下来。他的智力很一般，回答问题常常含糊其词，我认为这是由于他不大懂我们的语言。然而，正当我坐着写病历的时候，他对我的询问，突然停止了回答，当我转身向他时，我非常惊诧地望到他笔直地坐在椅子上，面部毫无表情，肌肉强直，眼睛直盯着我。他的疾病又发作了。

“正如我刚才所说的，我最初的感觉是既怜悯又害怕。后来，我的职业兴趣占了上风。我记下了病人的脉搏和体一温一，试了试他肌肉的强直程度，检查了他的反应能力，哪一方面都没有发现与我以前所诊断的这种病例有不一致的现象。在过去这样的病例中，我使用烷基亚硝酸吸一入剂，曾经取得了良好的疗效。现在似乎正是试验它疗效的极好机会。这个药瓶在楼下我的实验室里，于是，我丢下坐在椅子上的病人，跑下楼去取药。找药耽误了一些时间，大约五分钟吧，然后我就回来了。可是室内却空空如也，病人已不知去向，可想而知，我是多么惊讶了。

“当然，我首先就跑到候诊室，他儿子也不在了。前门已经关上，可是没有上锁。我那个接待病人的小听差是一个新来的仆役，并不机灵。平时他总是等在楼下，等我在诊室按铃时，他才跑来把病人领出去。他也没听到什么，这件事就成为一个不解之谜了。不多久，布莱星顿先生散步回来了，可是我一点也没有向他说起这件事，因为，老实说，近来我尽量少和他一交一谈。

“啊，我想我再也不会见到这个俄罗斯人和他儿子的影子了，所以，在今天夜晚，也是在那个时候，他们两个人象昨天那样，又来到我的诊室时，你们可以想象，我是多么惊讶了。

“‘昨天我突然离开，我觉得实在是太抱歉了，医生，’我的病人说道。

“‘我承认，我对这件事感到非常奇怪，’我说道。

“‘啊，情况是这样的，’他说，‘我每次清醒过来，对犯病时发生的一切事情，记忆总是非常模糊的。我似乎觉得，我醒来时是在一间陌生的房子里，当你不在时，我便昏头昏脑地起身出去，走到街上了。’

“‘我呢，’他儿子说道，‘看到我父亲从候诊室门口走过，自然想到已经诊治完了。直到我们到了家，我才知道事情的真相。’

“‘好了，’我笑了笑，说道，‘除了你们使我感到惶惑不解之处，别的倒也没什么。所以，先生，如果你愿意到候诊室去的话，我很高兴再继续进行昨天突然中断的诊治。’

“我和那位老绅士讨论了他的病情，约有半小时的样子，后来，我给他开了处方，之后，便看见他在他儿子搀扶下走出去了。

“我已经向你们说过，布莱星顿先生一般是在这个时间出去散步的。功夫不大，他散步回来了，走上楼去。过了一会，我听到他从楼上跑下来，象一个吓得发疯的人一样，冲进我的诊室。

“‘谁到我的屋子里去了？’他叫喊着。

“‘谁也没去过。’我说道。

“‘撒谎！’他怒吼道，‘你上来看看！’

“我没有注意他说话的粗一鲁，因为他害怕得几乎要发疯了。我和他一起上楼时，他把浅色地毯上的几个脚印指给我看。

“‘你说这是我的脚印吗？’他叫喊道。

“这些脚印肯定比他的要大得多，而且显然是不久前留下的。你们知道，今天中午曾经下过大雨，而我的病人只有刚才来过的这父子俩。那么，一定是在候诊室等着的那个人，出于某种目的，趁我在忙于给那个老人诊断时，上楼进了我那位住院病人的房间。没有动什么东西，也没有拿走什么，不过这些足迹证明，毫无疑问，是有人进去过的。

“尽避这是扰乱人心的事，可是布莱星顿先生显得出人意料之外地异常激动不安。他竟然坐在一把扶手椅上不断叫喊，我简直难以让他说得更清楚一些。是他提出要我来找你，我当然立即看出，这样做是适当的。因为尽避他对这件事的重要一性一似乎估计过高，但可以肯定这里面是有名堂的。你只要乘我的马车与我一同回去，你至少能使他平静下来，虽然我很难指望你能把所发生的这件奇事解释清楚。”

歇洛克-福尔摩斯聚一精一会神地倾听着这段冗长的叙述，我看出，这件事引起了他强烈的兴趣。他的面容象往常一样毫无表情，可是他的双眼眯缝得愈加厉害，从他烟斗中袅袅上升的烟雾也越来越浓，使得这位医生的故事中的每一个离奇的情节更加突出了。我们来访者的话刚一结束，福尔摩斯二话不说就站起来，把我的帽子递给我，从桌上抓起他自己的帽子，跟随特里维廉医生向门口走去。不到一刻钟，我们便来到布鲁克街这位医生寓所的门前了。一个矮个子小听差领着我们进去，我们立即走上宽阔的、铺着上等地毯的楼梯。

可是突然发生了一件怪事，使我们停了下来。楼顶的灯光蓦地熄灭了，黑暗中传来一个尖细的、颤一抖的呼喊声：“我有手槍，我警告你们，假如再往上走我就开槍。”

“这实在令人不能容忍，布莱星顿先生，”特里维廉医生高声喊道。

“啊，原来是你，医生，”这人宽慰地松了一口气，“可是其他几位先生不是冒充的吗？”

我们知道他已在暗中对我们进行了一番仔细的观察了。

“不错，不错，一点也不错，”那声音终于说道，“你们可以上来，我很抱歉，刚才对你们太无礼了。”

他一边说着一边把楼梯上的汽灯又点着了，我们看到面前站着一个面貌奇特的人。从他的外表和说话的声音看来，他确实神经过度紧张。他很胖，可是显然过去有一段时间，他比现在还要胖得多，所以他的脸如同猎犬的双颊一般，耷一拉着两只松一弛的肉一袋。他脸色苍白，那稀疏的土黄色的头发似乎由于感情激动而竖一立起来。他手中拿着一支手槍，我们向上走时，他把手槍塞一进了衣袋。

“晚安，福尔摩斯先生，”他说道，“我非常感激你到这里来。没有人比我更需要你的指教了。我想特里维廉医生已经把有人非法闯入我房一中的事告诉你了。”

“不错，”福尔摩斯说道，“那两个是什么人？布莱星顿先生，他们为什么要有意捉弄你？”

“唉，唉，”那位住院病人神情不安地说道，“当然，这很难说。你也很难指望我能回答这样的问题，福尔摩斯先生。”

“你是说你不知道吗？”

“请到这里来，请吧。请赏脸进来一下。”

他把