In publishing these short sketches, based upon the numerous cases which
my companion's singular gifts have made me the listener to, and
eventually the actor in some strange drama, it is only natural that I
should dwell rather upon his successes than upon his failures. And this
not so much for the sake of his reputation, for indeed it was when he
was at his wits' end that his energy and his versatility were most
admirable, but because where he failed it happened too often that no one
else succeeded, and that the tale was left for ever without a
conclusion. Now and again, however, it chanced that even when he erred
the truth was still discovered. I have notes of some half-dozen cases of
the kind of which "The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual" and that which
I am now about to recount are the two which present the strongest
features of interest.
Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise's sake.
Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was undoubtedly
one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever seen, but he
looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of energy, and he seldom
bestirred himself save where there was some professional object to be
served. Then he was absolutely untiring and indefatigable. That he
should have kept himself in training under such circumstances is
remarkable, but his diet was usually of the sparest, and his habits were
simple to the verge of austerity. Save for the occasional use of cocaine
he had no vices, and he only turned to the drug as a protest against the
monotony of existence when cases were scanty and the papers
uninteresting.
One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walk with
me in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green were breaking out
upon the elms, and the sticky spearheads of the chestnuts were just
beginning to burst into their five-fold leaves. For two hours we rambled
about together, in silence for the most part, as befits two men who know
each other intimately. It was nearly five before we were back in Baker
Street once more.
"Beg pardon, sir," said our page-boy, as he opened the door; "there's
been a gentleman here asking for you, sir."
Holmes glanced reproachfully at me. "So much for afternoon walks!" said
he. "Has this gentleman gone, then?"
"Yes, sir."
"Didn't you ask him in?"
"Yes, sir; he came in."
"How long did he wait?"
"Half an hour, sir. He was a very restless gentleman, sir, a-walkin' and
a-stampin' all the time he was here. I was waitin' outside the door,
sir, and I could hear him. At last he goes out into the passage and he
cries: 'Is that man never goin' to come?' Those were his very words,
sir. 'You'll only need to wait a little longer,' says I. 'Then I'll wait
in the open air, for I feel half choked,' says he. 'I'll be back before
long,' and with that he ups and he outs, and all I could say wouldn't
hold him back."
"Well, well, you did your best," said Holmes, as we walked into our
room. "It's very annoying though, Watson. I was badly in need of a case,
and this looks, from the man's impatience, as if it were of importance.
Halloa! that's not your pipe on the table! He must have left his behind
him. A nice old briar, with a good long stem of what the tobacconists
call amber. I wonder how many real amber mouthpieces there are in
London. Some people think a fly in it is a sign. Why, it is quite a
branch of trade the putting of sham flies into the sham amber. Well, he
must have been disturbed in his mind to leave a pipe behind him which he
evidently values highly."
"How do you know that he values it highly?" I asked.
"Well, I should put the original cost of the pipe at seven-and-sixpence.
Now it has, you see, been twice mended: once in the wooden stem and once
in the amber. Each of these mends, done, as you observe, with silver
bands, must have cost more than the pipe did originally. The man must
value the pipe highly when he prefers to patch it up rather than buy a
new one with the same money."
[Illustration: "HE HELD IT UP."]
"Anything else?" I asked, for Holmes was turning the pipe about in his
hand and staring at it in his peculiar, pensive way.
He held it up and tapped on it with his long, thin forefinger as a
professor might who was lecturing on a bone.
"Pipes are occasionally of extraordinary interest," said he. "Nothing
has more individuality save, perhaps, watches and boot-laces. The
indications here, however, are neither very marked nor very important.
The owner is obviously a muscular man, left-handed, with an excellent
set of teeth, careless in his habits, and with no need to practise
economy."
My friend threw out the information in a very off-hand way, but I saw
that he cocked his eye at me to see if I had followed his reasoning.
"You think a man must be well-to-do if he smokes a seven-shilling pipe?"
said I.
"This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce," Holmes answered,
knocking a little out on his palm. "As he might get an excellent smoke
for half the price, he has no need to practise economy."
"And the other points?"
"He has been in the habit of lighting his pipe at lamps and gas-jets.
You can see that it is quite charred all down one side. Of course, a
match could not have done that. Why should a man hold a match to the
side of his pipe? But you cannot light it at a lamp without getting the
bowl charred. And it is all on the right side of the pipe. From that I
gather that he is a left-handed man. You hold your own pipe to the lamp,
and see how naturally you, being right-handed, hold the left side to the
flame. You might do it once the other way, but not as a constancy. This
has always been held so. Then he has bitten through his amber. It takes
a muscular, energetic fellow, and one with a good set of teeth to do
that. But if I am not mistaken I hear him upon the stair, so we shall
have something more interesting than his pipe to study."
An instant later our door opened, and a tall young man entered the room.
He was well but quietly dressed in a dark-grey suit, and carried a brown
wideawake in his hand. I should have put him at about thirty, though he
was really some years older.
"I beg your pardon," said he, with some embarrassment; "I suppose I
should have knocked. Yes, of course I should have knocked. The fact is
that I am a little upset, and you must put it all down to that." He
passed his hand over his forehead like a man who is half dazed, and then
fell, rather than sat, down upon a chair.
"I can see that you have not slept for a night or two," said Holmes, in
his easy, genial way. "That tries a man's nerves more than work, and
more even than pleasure. May I ask how I can help you?"
"I wanted your advice, sir. I don't know what to do, and my whole life
seems to have gone to pieces."
"You wish to employ me as a consulting detective?"
"Not that only. I want your opinion as a judicious man--as a man of the
world. I want to know what I ought to do next. I hope to God you'll be
able to tell me."
He spoke in little, sharp, jerky outbursts, and it seemed to me that to
speak at all was very painful to him, and that his will all through was
overriding his inclinations.
"It's a very delicate thing," said he. "One does not like to speak of
one's domestic affairs to strangers. It seems dreadful to discuss the
conduct of one's wife with two men whom I have never seen before. It's
horrible to have to do it. But I've got to the end of my tether, and I
must have advice."
"My dear Mr. Grant Munro----" began Holmes.