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ElapticAI-512

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149M
“Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well
with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if
evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself
in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly
with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think
that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his
death?
“I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be
more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in
this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to
corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write
letters, why should he remain away from you?
“I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable.
“And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?
“No.
“And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?
“Very much so.
“Was the window open?
“Yes.
“Then he might have called to you?
“He might.
“He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?
“Yes.
“A call for help, you thought?
“Yes. He waved his hands.
“But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the
unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?
“It is possible.
“And you thought he was pulled back?
“He disappeared so suddenly.
“He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?
“No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the
Lascar was at the foot of the stairs.
“Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary
clothes on?
“But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat.
“Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?
“Never.
“Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?
“Never.
“Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which
I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and
then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow.
A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our
disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after
my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he
had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even for
a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking
at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or
convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident
to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off
his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then
wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions
from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of
Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an
ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In
the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe
between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the
ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with
the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I
dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me
to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The
pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the
room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap
of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.
“Awake, Watson? he asked.
“Yes.
“Game for a morning drive?