“I believe that he is coming here,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands.


“Here?”


“Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I think

that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?” As he spoke, the

man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled at our bell until the

whole house resounded with the clanging.


A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still gesticulating, but

with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his eyes that our smiles were

turned in an instant to horror and pity. For a while he could not get his words

out, but swayed his body and plucked at his hair like one who has been driven

to the extreme limits of his reason. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he

beat his head against the wall with such force that we both rushed upon him and

tore him away to the centre of the room. Sherlock Holmes pushed him down into

the easy-chair and, sitting beside him, patted his hand and chatted with him in

the easy, soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ.


“You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?” said he.

“You are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have recovered

yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into any little problem which

you may submit to me.”


The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting against his

emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his brow, set his lips tight, and

turned his face towards us.


“No doubt you think me mad?” said he.


“I see that you have had some great trouble,” responded Holmes.


“God knows I have!—a trouble which is enough to unseat my reason,

so sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might have faced, although I

am a man whose character has never yet borne a stain. Private affliction also

is the lot of every man; but the two coming together, and in so frightful a

form, have been enough to shake my very soul. Besides, it is not I alone. The