“It will be verified or disproved at the trial. Meanwhile, comewhat may, Colonel Moran will trouble us no more. The famousair-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum,and once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life toexamining those interesting little problems which the complex lifeof London so plentifully presents.”
The Adventure of the Norwood Builder
“From the point of view of the criminal expert,” said Mr.
Sherlock Holmes, “London has become a singularly uninterestingcity since the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty.”
“I can hardly think that you would find many decent citizens toagree with you,” I answered.
“Well, well, I must not be selfish,” said he, with a smile, as hepushed back his chair from the breakfast-table. “The communityis certainly the gainer, and no one the loser, save the poor out-ofworkspecialist, whose occupation has gone. With that man in thefield, one’s morning paper presented infinite possibilities. Oftenit was only the smallest trace, Watson, the faintest indication, andyet it was enough to tell me that the great malignant brain wasthere, as the gentlest tremors of the edges of the web remind oneof the foul spider which lurks in the centre. Petty thefts, wantonassaults, purposeless outrage—to the man who held the clue allcould be worked into one connected whole. To the scientificstudent of the higher criminal world, no capital in Europe offeredthe advantages which London then possessed. But now——” Heshrugged his shoulders in humorous deprecation of the state ofthings which he had himself done so much to produce.
At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for somemonths, and I at his request had sold my practice and returnedto share the old quarters in Baker Street. A young doctor, namedVerner, had purchased my small Kensington practice, and givenwith astonishingly little demur the highest price that I venturedto ask—an incident which only explained itself some years later,when I found that Verner was a distant relation of Holmes, andthat it was my friend who had really found the money.
Our months of partnership had not been so uneventful as hehad stated, for I find, on looking over my notes, that this periodincludes the case of the papers of ex-President Murillo, and alsothe shocking affair of the Dutch steamship FRIESLAND, whichso nearly cost us both our lives. His cold and proud nature wasalways averse, however, from anything in the shape of publicapplause, and he bound me in the most stringent terms to sayno further word of himself, his methods, or his successes—aprohibition which, as I have explained, has only now been removed.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes was leaning back in his chair after hiswhimsical protest, and was unfolding his morning paper in aleisurely fashion, when our attention was arrested by a tremendousring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow drummingsound, as if someone were beating on the outer door with his fist.
As it opened there came a tumultuous rush into the hall, rapidfeet clattered up the stair, and an instant later a wild-eyed andfrantic young man, pale, disheveled, and palpitating, burst into theroom. He looked from one to the other of us, and under our gazeof inquiry he became conscious that some apology was needed forthis unceremonious entry.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “You mustn’t blame me.
I am nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John HectorMcFarlane.”
He made the announcement as if the name alone would explainboth his visit and its manner, but I could see, by my companion’sunresponsive face, that it meant no more to him than to me.
“Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane,” said he, pushing his caseacross. “I am sure that, with your symptoms, my friend Dr. Watsonhere would prescribe a sedative. The weather has been so verywarm these last few days. Now, if you feel a little more composed,I should be glad if you would sit down in that chair, and tell us veryslowly and quietly who you are, and what it is that you want. Youmentioned your name, as if I should recognize it, but I assure youthat, beyond the obvious facts that you are a bachelor, a solicitor, aFreemason, and an asthmatic, I know nothing whatever about you.”
Familiar as I was with my friend’s methods, it was not difficult forme to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of attire,the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the breathing whichhad prompted them. Our client, however, stared in amazement.
“Yes, I am all that, Mr. Holmes; and, in addition, I am the mostunfortunate man at this moment in London. For heaven’s sake,don’t abandon me, Mr. Holmes! If they come to arrest me beforeI have finished my story, make them give me time, so that I maytell you the whole truth. I could go to jail happy if I knew that youwere working for me outside.”
“Arrest you!” said Holmes. “This is really most grati—mostinteresting. On what charge do you expect to be arrested?”
“Upon the charge of murdering Mr. Jonas Oldacre, of LowerNorwood.”
My companion’s expressive face showed a sympathy which wasnot, I am afraid, entirely unmixed with satisfaction.
“Dear me,” said he, “it was only this moment at breakfast thatI was saying to my friend, Dr. Watson, that sensational cases haddisappeared out of our papers.”
Our visitor stretched forward a quivering hand and picked upthe DAILY TELEGRAPH, which still lay upon Holmes’s knee.
“If you had looked at it, sir, you would have seen at a glancewhat the errand is on which I have come to you this morning.
I feel as if my name and my misfortune must be in every man’smouth.” He turned it over to expose the central page. “Here it is,and with your permission I will read it to you. Listen to this, Mr.
Holmes. The headlines are: ‘Mysterious Affair at Lower Norwood.
