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Page 114
Your old school-fellow,
Percy Phelps.
There was something that touched me as I read this
letter, something pitiable in the reiterated appeals
to bring Holmes. So moved was I that even had it been
a difficult matter I should have tried it, but of
course I knew well that Holmes loved his art, so that
he was ever as ready to bring his aid as his client
could be to receive it. My wife agreed with me that
not a moment should be lost in laying the matter
before him, and so within an hour of breakfast-time I
found myself back once more in the old rooms in Baker
Street.
Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his
dressing-gown, and working hard over a chemical
investigation. A large curved retort was boiling
furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen burner, and
the distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre
measure. My friend hardly glanced up as I entered,
and I, seeing that his investigation must be of
importance, seated myself in an arm-chair and waited.
He dipped into this bottle or that, drawing out a few
drops of each with his glass pipette, and finally
brought a test-tube containing a solution over to the
table. In his right hand he held a slip of
litmus-paper.
"You come at a crisis, Watson," said he. "If this
paper remains blue, all is well. If it turns red, it
means a man's life." He dipped it into the test-tube
and it flushed at once into a dull, dirty crimson.
"Hum! I thought as much!" he cried. "I will be at
your service in an instant, Watson. You will find
tobacco in the Persian slipper." He turned to his
desk and scribbled off several telegrams, which were
handed over to the page-boy. Then he threw himself
down into the chair opposite, and drew up his knees
until his fingers clasped round his long, thin shins.
"A very commonplace little murder," said he. "You've
got something better, I fancy. You are the stormy
petrel of crime, Watson. What is it?"
I handed him the letter, which he read with the most
concentrated attention.
"It does not tell us very much, does it?" he remarked,
as he handed it back to me.
"Hardly anything."
"And yet the writing is of interest."
"But the writing is not his own."
"Precisely. It is a woman's."
"A man's surely," I cried.
"No, a woman's, and a woman of rare character. You
see, at the commencement of an investigation it is
something to know that your client is in close contact
with some one who, for good or evil, has an
exceptional nature. My interest is already awakened
in the case. If you are ready we will start at once
for Woking, and see this diplomatist who is in such
evil case, and the lady to whom he dictates his
letters."
We were fortunate enough to catch an early train at
Waterloo, and in a little under an hour we found
ourselves among the fir-woods and the heather of
Woking. Briarbrae proved to be a large detached house
standing in extensive grounds within a few minutes'
walk of the station. On sending in our cards we were
shown into an elegantly appointed drawing-room, where
we were joined in a few minutes by a rather stout man
who received us with much hospitality. His age may
have been nearer forty than thirty, but his cheeks
were so ruddy and his eyes so merry that he still
conveyed the impression of a plump and mischievous
boy.
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