“You did, doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view,
for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you, until
your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right.
Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this
morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the
most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard
me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often
connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and
occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any
positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard it is
impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of
crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most
singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you
would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask
you, not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the
opening part, but also because the peculiar nature of the story
makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a
rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of
events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar
cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced
to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique.”
The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some
little pride, and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the
inside pocket of his great-coat. As he glanced down the
advertisement column, with his head thrust forward, and the paper
flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man, and
endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, to read the
indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.
I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor
bore every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman,
obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy gray shepherd’s check
trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the
front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a
square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed
top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay
upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was
nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the
expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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