конан дойл (conan doyle)"This is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken, " said Sherlock Holmes one evening, as we were both in his little sitting-room in Baker Street2. He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds looking down into the dull London street.
Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat. From under this great hat she looked up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows. Suddenly, with a plunge3, as of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of the bell.
"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his cigarette into the fire. "Hesitation upon the pavement always means a love affair. She wants advice, but is afraid that the matter is too delicate for communication. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts."
As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the servant boy entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland4, while the lady herself loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-ship behind a tiny pilot boat.
Sherlock Holmes welcomed her and, having closed the door and offered her an armchair, he looked attentively at her.
"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a little difficult to do so much typewriting?"
"It was difficult at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters are without looking."
Then, suddenly she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face.
"You've heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "otherwise how could you know all that?"
"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others don't notice. What do you want to consult me about?"
"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year, besides I earn a little by typewriting and I am ready to give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."