“Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you to knowthat the man upon earth who is best versed in this disease isnot a medical man, but a planter. Mr. Culverton Smith is a wellknownresident of Sumatra, now visiting London. An outbreak ofthe disease upon his plantation, which was distant from medicalaid, caused him to study it himself, with some rather far-reachingconsequences. He is a very methodical person, and I did not desireyou to start before six, because I was well aware that you wouldnot find him in his study. If you could persuade him to come hereand give us the benefit of his unique experience of this disease, theinvestigation of which has been his dearest hobby, I cannot doubtthat he could help me.”
I gave Holmes’s remarks as a consecutive whole and will notattempt to indicate how they were interrupted by gaspings forbreath and those clutchings of his hands which indicated the painfrom which he was suffering. His appearance had changed forthe worse during the few hours that I had been with him. Thosehectic spots were more pronounced, the eyes shone more brightlyout of darker hollows, and a cold sweat glimmered upon his brow.
He still retained, however, the jaunty gallantry of his speech. Tothe last gasp he would always be the master.
“You will tell him exactly how you have left me,” said he. “Youwill convey the very impression which is in your own mind—adying man—a dying and delirious man. Indeed, I cannot thinkwhy the whole bed of the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, soprolific the creatures seem. Ah, I am wondering! Strange how thebrain controls the brain! What was I saying, Watson?”
“My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith.”
“Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead withhim, Watson. There is no good feeling between us. His nephew,Watson—I had suspicions of foul play and I allowed him to see it.
The boy died horribly. He has a grudge against me. You will softenhim, Watson. Beg him, pray him, get him here by any means. Hecan save me—only he!”
“I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it.”
“You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come.
And then you will return in front of him. Make any excuse so asnot to come with him. Don’t forget, Watson. You won’t fail me.
You never did fail me. No doubt there are natural enemies whichlimit the increase of the creatures. You and I, Watson, we havedone our part. Shall the world, then, be overrun by oysters? No,no; horrible! You’ll convey all that is in your mind.”
I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect babblinglike a foolish child. He had handed me the key, and with a happythought I took it with me lest he should lock himself in. Mrs.
Hudson was waiting, trembling and weeping, in the passage.
Behind me as I passed from the flat I heard Holmes’s high, thinvoice in some delirious chant. Below, as I stood whistling for a cab,a man came on me through the fog.
“How is Mr. Holmes, sir?” he asked.
It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard,dressed in unofficial tweeds.
“He is very ill,” I answered.
He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it not beentoo fiendish, I could have imagined that the gleam of the fanlightshowed exultation in his face.
“I heard some rumour of it,” said he.
The cab had driven up, and I left him.
Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying inthe vague borderland between Notting Hill and Kensington. Theparticular one at which my cabman pulled up had an air of smugand demure respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, itsmassive folding-door, and its shining brasswork. All was in keepingwith a solemn butler who appeared framed in the pink radiance ofa tinted electrical light behind him.
“Yes, Mr. Culverton Smith is in. Dr. Watson! Very good, sir, Iwill take up your card.”
My humble name and title did not appear to impress Mr.
Culverton Smith. Through the half-open door I heard a high,petulant, penetrating voice.
“Who is this person? What does he want? Dear me, Staples,how often have I said that I am not to be disturbed in my hours ofstudy?”
There came a gentle flow of soothing explanation from thebutler.
“Well, I won’t see him, Staples. I can’t have my work interruptedlike this. I am not at home. Say so. Tell him to come in themorning if he really must see me.”
Again the gentle murmur.
“Well, well, give him that message. He can come in the morning,or he can stay away. My work must not be hindered.”
I thought of Holmes tossing upon his bed of sickness andcounting the minutes, perhaps, until I could bring help to him. Itwas not a time to stand upon ceremony. His life depended uponmy promptness. Before the apologetic butler had delivered hismessage I had pushed past him and was in the room.
With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chairbeside the fire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and greasy,with heavy, double-chin, and two sullen, menacing gray eyes whichglared at me from under tufted and sandy brows. A high bald headhad a small velvet smoking-cap poised coquettishly upon one sideof its pink curve. The skull was of enormous capacity, and yet asI looked down I saw to my amazement that the figure of the manwas small and frail, twisted in the shoulders and back like one whohas suffered from rickets in his childhood.
“What’s this?” he cried in a high, screaming voice. “What is themeaning of this intrusion? Didn’t I send you word that I would seeyou to-morrow morning?”
“I am sorry,” said I, “but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr.
Sherlock Holmes—”
The mention of my friend’s name had an extraordinary effectupon the little man. The look of anger passed in an instant fromhis face. His features became tense and alert.
“Have you come from Holmes?” he asked.
“I have just left him.”
“What about Holmes? How is he?”
“He is desperately ill. That is why I have come.”
The man motioned me to a chair, and turned to resume his own.
