There were several Mortimers, but only one who could be ourvisitor. I read his record aloud.
“Mortimer, James, M.R.C.S., 1882, Grimpen, Dartmoor, Devon.
House-surgeon, from 1882 to 1884, at Charing Cross Hospital.
Winner of the Jackson prize for Comparative Pathology, with essayentitled ‘Is Disease a Reversion?’ Corresponding member of theSwedish Pathological Society. Author of ‘Some Freaks of Atavism’
(Lancet 1882). ‘Do We Progress?’ (Journal of Psychology, March,1883). Medical Officer for the parishes of Grimpen, Thorsley, andHigh Barrow.”
“No mention of that local hunt, Watson,” said Holmes witha mischievous smile, “but a country doctor, as you very astutelyobserved. I think that I am fairly justified in my inferences. As tothe adjectives, I said, if I remember right, amiable, unambitious,and absent-minded. It is my experience that it is only an amiableman in this world who receives testimonials, only an unambitiousone who abandons a London career for the country, and only anabsent-minded one who leaves his stick and not his visiting-cardafter waiting an hour in your room.”
“And the dog?”
Has been in the habit of carrying this stick behind his master.
Being a heavy stick the dog has held it tightly by the middle,and the marks of his teeth are very plainly visible. The dog’s jaw,as shown in the space between these marks, is too broad in myopinion for a terrier and not broad enough for a mastiff. It mayhave been—yes, by Jove, it is a curly-haired spaniel.
He had risen and paced the room as he spoke. Now he halted inthe recess of the window. There was such a ring of conviction inhis voice that I glanced up in surprise.
“My dear fellow, how can you possibly be so sure of that?”
“For the very simple reason that I see the dog himself on ourvery door-step, and there is the ring of its owner. Don’t move, Ibeg you, Watson. He is a professional brother of yours, and yourpresence may be of assistance to me. Now is the dramatic momentof fate, Watson, when you hear a step upon the stair which iswalking into your life, and you know not whether for good orill. What does Dr. James Mortimer, the man of science, ask ofSherlock Holmes, the specialist in crime? Come in!”
The appearance of our visitor was a surprise to me, since I hadexpected a typical country practitioner. He was a very tall, thinman, with a long nose like a beak, which jutted out between twokeen, gray eyes, set closely together and sparkling brightly frombehind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He was clad in a professionalbut rather slovenly fashion, for his frock-coat was dingy and histrousers frayed. Though young, his long back was already bowed,and he walked with a forward thrust of his head and a general air ofpeering benevolence. As he entered his eyes fell upon the stick inHolmes’s hand, and he ran towards it with an exclamation of joy. “Iam so very glad,” said he. “I was not sure whether I had left it hereor in the Shipping Office. I would not lose that stick for the world.”
“A presentation, I see,” said Holmes.
“Yes, sir.”
“From Charing Cross Hospital?”
“From one or two friends there on the occasion of my marriage.”
“Dear, dear, that’s bad!” said Holmes, shaking his head.
Dr. Mortimer blinked through his glasses in mild astonishment.
“Why was it bad?”
“Only that you have disarranged our little deductions. Yourmarriage, you say?”
“Yes, sir. I married, and so left the hospital, and with it all hopesof a consulting practice. It was necessary to make a home of myown.”
“Come, come, we are not so far wrong, after all,” said Holmes.
“And now, Dr. James Mortimer——”
“Mister, sir, Mister—a humble M.R.C.S.”
“And a man of precise mind, evidently.”
“A dabbler in science, Mr. Holmes, a picker up of shells onthe shores of the great unknown ocean. I presume that it is Mr.
Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not ——”
“No, this is my friend Dr. Watson.”
“Glad to meet you, sir. I have heard your name mentioned inconnection with that of your friend. You interest me very much,Mr. Holmes. I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull orsuch well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have anyobjection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? Acast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would be anornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my intentionto be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull.”
Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair. “Youare an enthusiast in your line of thought, I perceive, sir, as I am inmine,” said he. “I observe from your forefinger that you make yourown cigarettes. Have no hesitation in lighting one.”
The man drew out paper and tobacco and twirled the one up inthe other with surprising dexterity. He had long, quivering fingersas agile and restless as the antennae of an insect.
Holmes was silent, but his little darting glances showed me theinterest which he took in our curious companion.
“I presume, sir,” said he at last, “that it was not merely for thepurpose of examining my skull that you have done me the honourto call here last night and again to-day?”
“No, sir, no; though I am happy to have had the opportunityof doing that as well. I came to you, Mr. Holmes, because Irecognized that I am myself an unpractical man and because Iam suddenly confronted with a most serious and extraordinaryproblem. Recognizing, as I do, that you are the second highestexpert in Europe——”
“Indeed, sir! May I inquire who has the honour to be the first?”
asked Holmes with some asperity.
“To the man of precisely scientific mind the work of MonsieurBertillon must always appeal strongly.”
“Then had you not better consult him?”
“I said, sir, to the precisely scientific mind. But as a practicalman of affairs it is acknowledged that you stand alone. I trust, sir,that I have not inadvertently——”
“Just a little,” said Holmes. “I think, Dr. Mortimer, you would dowisely if without more ado you would kindly tell me plainly what theexact nature of the problem is in which you demand my assistance.”
