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Page 95
Sherlock Holmes had listened to this long narrative
with an intentness which showed me that his interest
was keenly aroused. His face was as impassive as
ever, but his lids had drooped more heavily over his
eyes, and his smoke had curled up more thickly from
his pipe to emphasize each curious episode in the
doctor's tale. As our visitor concluded, Holmes
sprang up without a word, handed me my hat, picked his
own from the table, and followed Dr. Trevelyan to the
door. Within a quarter of an hour we had been dropped
at the door of the physician's residence in Brook
Street, one of those sombre, flat-faced houses which
one associates with a West-End practice. A small page
admitted us, and we began at once to ascend the broad,
well-carpeted stair.
But a singular interruption brought us to a
standstill. The light at the top was suddenly whisked
out, and from the darkness came a reedy, quivering
voice.
"I have a pistol," it cried. "I give you my word that
I'll fire if you come any nearer."
"This really grows outrageous, Mr. Blessington," cried
Dr. Trevelyan.
"Oh, then it is you, doctor," said the voice, with a
great heave of relief. "But those other gentlemen,
are they what they pretend to be?"
We were conscious of a long scrutiny out of the
darkness.
"Yes, yes, it's all right," said the voice at last.
"You can come up, and I am sorry if my precautions
have annoyed you."
He relit the stair gas as he spoke, and we saw before
us a singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well
as his voice, testified to his jangled nerves. He was
very fat, but had apparently at some time been much
fatter, so that the skin hung about his face in loose
pouches, like the cheeks of a blood-hound. He was of
a sickly color, and his thin, sandy hair seemed to
bristle up with the intensity of his emotion. In his
hand he held a pistol, but he thrust it into his
pocket as we advanced.
"Good-evening, Mr. Holmes," said he. "I am sure I am
very much obliged to you for coming round. No one
ever needed your advice more than I do. I suppose
that Dr. Trevelyan has told you of this most
unwarrantable intrusion into my rooms."
"Quite so," said Holmes. "Who are these two men Mr.
Blessington, and why do they wish to molest you?"
"Well, well," said the resident patient, in a nervous
fashion, "of course it is hard to say that. You can
hardly expect me to answer that, Mr. Holmes."
"Do you mean that you don't know?"
"Come in here, if you please. Just have the kindness
to step in here."
He led the way into his bedroom, which was large and
comfortably furnished.
"You see that," said he, pointing to a big black box
at the end of his bed. "I have never been a very rich
man, Mr. Holmes--never made but one investment in my
life, as Dr. Trevelyan would tell you. But I don't
believe in bankers. I would never trust a banker, Mr.
Holmes. Between ourselves, what little I have is in
that box, so you can understand what it means to me
when unknown people force themselves into my rooms."
Holmes looked at Blessington in his questioning way
and shook his head.
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