“So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughtswent back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you werestudying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceasedto pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face wasthoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher’s career. Iwas well aware that you could not do this without thinking of themission which he undertook on behalf of the North at the timeof the Civil War, for I remember you expressing your passionateindignation at the way in which he was received by the moreturbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about it that I knewyou could not think of Beecher without thinking of that also. Whena moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the picture, Isuspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil War, andwhen I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and yourhands clinched, I was positive that you were indeed thinking of thegallantry which was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle.
But then, again, your face grew sadder; you shook your head. Youwere dwelling upon the sadness and horror and useless waste of life.
Your hand stole towards your own old wound, and a smile quiveredon your lips, which showed me that the ridiculous side of thismethod of settling international questions had forced itself uponyour mind. At this point I agreed with you that it was preposterous,and was glad to find that all my deductions had been correct.”
“Absolutely!” said I. “And now that you have explained it, Iconfess that I am as amazed as before.”
“It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I shouldnot have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown someincredulity the other day. But the evening has brought a breezewith it. 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 everchangingkaleidoscope of life as it ebbs and flows through FleetStreet and the Strand. His characteristic talk, with its keenobservance of detail and subtle power of inference held meamused and enthralled. It was ten o’clock before we reached BakerStreet 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. Cometo consult us, I fancy! Lucky we came back!”
I was sufficiently conversant with Holmes’s methods to be ableto follow his reasoning, and to see that the nature and state ofthe various medical instruments in the wicker basket which hungin the lamplight inside the brougham had given him the data forhis swift deduction. The light in our window above showed thatthis late visit was indeed intended for us. With some curiosity asto what could have sent a brother medico to us at such an hour, Ifollowed Holmes into our sanctum.
A pale, taper-faced man with sandy whiskers rose up from achair by the fire as we entered. His age may not have been morethan three or four and thirty, but his haggard expression andunhealthy hue told of a life which has sapped his strength androbbed him of his youth. His manner was nervous and shy, likethat of a sensitive gentleman, and the thin white hand which helaid on the mantelpiece as he rose was that of an artist rather thanof 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 seethat 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. Prayresume your seat and let me know how I can serve you.”
“My name is Doctor Percy Trevelyan,” said our visitor, “and Ilive at 403 Brook Street.”
“Are you not the author of a monograph upon obscure nervouslesions?” I asked.
His pale cheeks flushed with pleasure at hearing that his workwas 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 itssale. You are yourself, I presume, a medical man?”
“A retired army surgeon.”
“My own hobby has always been nervous disease. I should wishto make it an absolute specialty, but, of course, a man must takewhat he can get at first. This, however, is beside the question, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, and I quite appreciate how valuable your timeis. The fact is that a very singular train of events has occurredrecently at my house in Brook Street, and to-night they cameto such a head that I felt it was quite impossible for me to waitanother hour before asking for your advice and assistance.”
Sherlock Holmes sat down and lit his pipe. “You are verywelcome to both,” said he. “Pray let me have a detailed account ofwhat the circumstances are which have disturbed you.”
“One or two of them are so trivial,” said Dr. Trevelyan, “thatreally I am almost ashamed to mention them. But the matteris so inexplicable, and the recent turn which it has taken is soelaborate, that I shall lay it all before you, and you shall judge whatis essential and what is not.
“I am compelled, to begin with, to say something of my owncollege career. I am a London University man, you know, andI am sure that your will not think that I am unduly singing myown praises if I say that my student career was considered bymy professors to be a very promising one. After I had graduatedI continued to devote myself to research, occupying a minorposition in King’s College Hospital, and I was fortunate enough toexcite considerable interest by my research into the pathology ofcatalepsy, and finally to win the Bruce Pinkerton prize and medalby the monograph on nervous lesions to which your friend hasjust alluded. I should not go too far if I were to say that there wasa general impression at that time that a distinguished career laybefore me.
“But the one great stumbling-block lay in my want of capital.
