elapt1c/ElapticAI-512 · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 0 149M
She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way,
with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still
pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze
directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old
and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and, having lit
it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths
spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.

“Quite an interesting study, that maiden, he observed. “I found her
more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather
a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in
Andover in ’77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last
year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which
were new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive.

“You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to
me, I remarked.

“Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look,
and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to
realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails,
or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you
gather from that woman’s appearance? Describe it.

“Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a
feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn
upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was
brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at
the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn through at
the right forefinger. Her boots I didn’t observe. She had small round,
hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in
a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

“’Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have
really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed
everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you
have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my
boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always
at a woman’s sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the
knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her
sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double
line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against
the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand
type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side
of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the
broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing
the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark
upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her.

“It surprised me.

“But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested
on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was
wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one
having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was
buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at
the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady,
otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots,
half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a
hurry.

“And what else? I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my
friend’s incisive reasoning.

“I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home
but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was
torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove
and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and
dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark
would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though
rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you
mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?

I held the little printed slip to the light. “Missing, it said, “on
the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About
five ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black
hair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and
moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed,
when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat,
gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters
over elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in
Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing, &c, &c.

“That will do, said Holmes. “As to the letters, he continued,
glancing over them, “they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in
them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one
remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you.

“They are typewritten, I remarked.

“Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat
little ‘Hosmer Angel’ at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no
superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The
point about the signature is very suggestive—in fact, we may call it
conclusive.

She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way,

with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.

Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still

pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze

directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old

and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and, having lit

it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths

spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.

“Quite an interesting study, that maiden, he observed. “I found her

more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather

a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in

Andover in ’77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last

year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which

were new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive.

“You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to

me, I remarked.

“Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look,

and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to

realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails,

or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you

gather from that woman’s appearance? Describe it.

“Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a

feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn

upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was

brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at

the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn through at

the right forefinger. Her boots I didn’t observe. She had small round,

hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in

a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.

Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

“’Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have

really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed

everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you

have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my

boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always

at a woman’s sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the

knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her

sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double

line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against

the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand

type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side

of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the

broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing

the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark

upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her.

“It surprised me.

“But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested

on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was

wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one

having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was

buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at

the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady,

otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots,

half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a

hurry.

“And what else? I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my

friend’s incisive reasoning.

“I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home

but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was

torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove

and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and

dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark

would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though

rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you

mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?

I held the little printed slip to the light. “Missing, it said, “on

the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About

five ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black

hair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and

moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed,

when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat,

gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters

over elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in

Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing, &c, &c.

“That will do, said Holmes. “As to the letters, he continued,

glancing over them, “they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in

them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one

remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you.

“They are typewritten, I remarked.

“Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat

little ‘Hosmer Angel’ at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no

superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The

point about the signature is very suggestive—in fact, we may call it

conclusive.