"What then?"
"The inquest is just over. The medical evidence showed conclusivelythat death was due to apoplexy. You see it was quite a simple case afterall."
"Oh, remarkably superficial," said Holmes, smiling. "Come, Watson, Idon't think we shall be wanted in Aldershot any more."
"There's one thing," said I, as we walked down to the station. "If thehusband's name was James, and the other was Henry, what was this talkabout David?"
"That one word, my dear Watson, should have told me the whole story hadI been the ideal reasoner which you are so fond of depicting. It wasevidently a term of reproach."
"Of reproach?"
"Yes; David strayed a little occasionally, you know, and on one occasionin the same direction as Sergeant James Barclay. You remember the smallaffair 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
In glancing over the somewhat incoherent series of Memoirs with which Ihave endeavored to illustrate a few of the mental peculiarities of myfriend Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have been struck by the difficulty which Ihave experienced in picking out examples which shall in every way answermy purpose. For in those cases in which Holmes has performed some tourde force of analytical reasoning, and has demonstrated the value of hispeculiar methods of investigation, the facts themselves have often beenso slight or so commonplace that I could not feel justified in layingthem before the public. On the other hand, it has frequently happenedthat he has been concerned in some research where the facts have been ofthe most remarkable and dramatic character, but where the share which hehas himself taken in determining their causes has been less pronouncedthan I, as his biographer, could wish. The small matter which I havechronicled under the heading of "A Study in Scarlet," and that otherlater one connected with the loss of the Gloria Scott, may serve asexamples of this Scylla and Charybdis which are forever threatening thehistorian. It may be that in the business of which I am now about towrite the part which my friend played is not sufficiently accentuated;and yet the whole train of circumstances is so remarkable that I cannotbring 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 letterwhich he had received by the morning post. For myself, my term ofservice in India had trained me to stand heat better than cold, anda thermometer of 90 was no hardship. But the paper was uninteresting.Parliament had risen. Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for theglades of the New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted bankaccount had caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion,neither the country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction tohim. He loved to lie in the very centre of five millions of people, withhis filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive toevery little rumor or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation ofNature found no place among his many gifts, and his only change waswhen he turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town to track down hisbrother of the country.
Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation, I had tossedaside the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair, I fell into abrown study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts.
"You are right, Watson," said he. "It does seem a very preposterous wayof settling a dispute."
"Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then, suddenly realizing howhe had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair andstared at him in blank amazement.
"What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is beyond anything which I couldhave imagined."
He laughed heartily at my perplexity.
"You remember," said he, "that some little time ago, when I read you thepassage in one of Poe's sketches, in which a close reasoner follows theunspoken thought of his companion, you were inclined to treat thematter as a mere tour de force of the author. On my remarking that Iwas constantly in the habit of doing the same thing you expressedincredulity."
"Oh, no!"
"Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with youreyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon a trainof thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of reading itoff, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that I had been inrapport with you."
But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example which you read tome," said I, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of theman whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a heapof stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been seatedquietly in my chair, and what clues can I have given you?"
"You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as themeans by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithfulservants."
"Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from myfeatures?"
"Your features, and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot yourselfrecall how your reverie commenced?"
"No, I cannot."
"Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was theaction which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute witha vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon yournewly-framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration inyour face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not leadvery far. Your eyes turned across to the unframed portrait of Henry WardBeecher which stands upon the top of your books. You then glanced up atthe wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You were thinkingthat if the portrait were framed it would just cover that bare space andcorrespond 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 wentback to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studyingthe character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, butyou continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You wererecalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that youcould not do this without thinking of the mission which he undertookon behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I rememberyou expressing your passionate indignation at the way in which he wasreceived by the more turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly aboutit that I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of thatalso. 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 whenI observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your handsclinched, I was positive that you were indeed thinking of the gallantrywhich was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle. But then,again, your face grew sadder; you shook your head. You were dwellingupon the sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your hand stoletowards your own old wound, and a smile quivered on your lips,which showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of settlinginternational questions had forced itself upon your mind. At this pointI agreed with you that it was preposterous, and was glad to find thatall my deductions had been correct."
"Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have explained it, I confessthat I am as amazed as before."
"It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should nothave intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some incredulitythe other day. But the evening has brought a breeze with it. What do yousay to a ramble through London?"
I was weary of our little sitting-room and gladly acquiesced. Forthree hours we strolled about together, watching the ever-changingkaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through Fleet Street and theStrand. His characteristic talk, with its keen observance of detailand subtle power of inference held me amused and enthralled. It was teno'clock before we reached Baker Street again. A brougham was waiting atour door.
"Hum! A doctor's--general practitioner, I perceive," said Holmes. "Notbeen long in practice, but has had a good deal to do. Come to consultus, I fancy! Lucky we came back!"