福尔摩斯-皮肤变白的军人 The Adventure of the Blanched Soldie

The Blanched Soldier

Arthur Conan Doyle

The ideas of my friend Watson, though limited, are exceedingly pertinacious. For a long time he has worried me to write an experience of my own. Perhaps I have rather invited this persecution, since I have often had occasion to point out to him how superficial are his own accounts and to accuse him of pandering to popular taste instead of confining himself rigidly to facts and figures. “Try it yourself, Holmes!” he has retorted, and I am compelled to admit that, having taken my pen in my hand, I do begin to realize that the matter must be presented in such a way as may interest the reader. The following case can hardly fail to do so, as it is among the strangest happenings in my collection, though it chanced that Watson had no note of it in his collection. Speaking of my old friend and biographer, I would take this opportunity to remark that if I burden myself with a companion in my various little inquiries it is not done out of sentiment or caprice, but it is that Watson has some remarkable characteristics of his own to which in his modesty he has given small attention amid his exaggerated estimates of my own performances. A confederate who foresees your conclusions and course of action is always dangerous, but one to whom each development comes as a perpetual surprise, and to whom the future is always a closed book, is indeed an ideal helpmate.

I find from my notebook that it was in January, 1903, just after the conclusion of the Boer War, that I had my visit from Mr. James M. Dodd, a big, fresh, sunburned, upstanding Briton. The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone.

It is my habit to sit with my back to the window and to place my visitors in the opposite chair, where the light falls full upon them. Mr. James M. Dodd seemed somewhat at a loss how to begin the interview. I did not attempt to help him, for his silence gave me more time for observation. I have found it wise to impress clients with a sense of power, and so I gave him some of my conclusions.

“From South Africa, sir, I perceive.”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, with some surprise.

“Imperial Yeomanry, I fancy.”

“Exactly.”

“Middlesex Corps, no doubt.”

“That is so. Mr. Holmes, you are a wizard.”

I smiled at his bewildered expression.

“When a gentleman of virile appearance enters my room with such tan upon his face as an English sun could never give, and with his handkerchief in his sleeve instead of in his pocket, it is not difficult to place him. You wear a short beard, which shows that you were not a regular. You have the cut of a riding-man. As to Middlesex, your card has already shown me that you are a stockbroker from Throgmorton Street. What other regiment would you join?”

“You see everything.”

“I see no more than you, but I have trained myself to notice what I see. However, Mr. Dodd, it was not to discuss the science of observation that you called upon me this morning. What has been happening at Tuxbury Old Park?”

“Mr. Holmes—!”

“My dear sir, there is no mystery. Your letter came with that heading, and as you fixed this appointment in very pressing terms it was clear that something sudden and important had occurred.”

“Yes, indeed. But the letter was written in the afternoon, and a good deal has happened since then. If Colonel Emsworth had not kicked me out—”

“Kicked you out!”

“Well, that was what it amounted to. He is a hard nail, is Colonel Emsworth. The greatest martinet in the Army in his day, and it was a day of rough language, too. I couldn't have stuck the colonel if it had not been for Godfrey's sake.”

I lit my pipe and leaned back in my chair.

“Perhaps you will explain what you are talking about.”

My client grinned mischievously.

“I had got into the way of supposing that you knew everything without being told,” said he. “But I will give you the facts, and I hope to God that you will be able to tell me what they mean. I've been awake all night puzzling my brain, and the more I think the more incredible does it become.

“When I joined up in January, 1901—just two years ago—young Godfrey Emsworth had joined the same squadron. He was Colonel Emsworth's only son—Emsworth, the Crimean V. C.—and he had the fighting blood in him, so it is no wonder he volunteered. There was not a finer lad in the regiment. We formed a friendship—the sort of friendship which can only be made when one lives the same life and shares the same joys and sorrows. He was my mate—and that means a good deal in the Army. We took the rough and the smooth together for a year of hard fighting. Then he was hit with a bullet from an elephant gun in the action near Diamond Hill outside Pretoria. I got one letter from the hospital at Cape Town and one from Southampton. Since then not a word—not one word, Mr. Holmes, for six months and more, and he my closest pal.

“Well, when the war was over, and we all got back, I wrote to his father and asked where Godfrey was. No answer. I waited a bit and then I wrote again. This time I had a reply, short and gruff. Godfrey had gone on a voyage round the world, and it was not likely that he would be back for a year. That was all.

“I wasn't satisfied, Mr. Holmes. The whole thing seemed to me so damned unnatural. He was a good lad, and he would not drop a pal like that. It was not like him. Then, again, I happened to know that he was heir to a lot of money, and also that his father and he did not always hit it off too well. The old man was sometimes a bully, and young Godfrey had too much spirit to stand it. No, I wasn't satisfied, and I determined that I would get to the root of the matter. It happened, however, that my own affairs needed a lot of straightening out, after two years' absence, and so it is only this week that I have been able to take up Godfrey's case again. But since I have taken it up I mean to drop everything in order to see it through.”

Mr. James M. Dodd appeared to be the sort of person whom it would be better to have as a friend than as an enemy. His blue eyes were stern and his square jaw had set hard as he spoke.

“Well, what have you done?” I asked.

“My first move was to get down to his home, Tuxbury Old Park, near Bedford, and to see for myself how the ground lay. I wrote to the mother, therefore—I had had quite enough of the curmudgeon of a father—and I made a clean frontal attack: Godfrey was my chum, I had a great deal of interest which I might tell her of our common experiences, I should be in the neighbourhood, would there be any objection, et cetera? In reply I had quite an amiable answer from her and an offer to put me up for the night. That was what took me down on Monday.

“Tuxbury Old Hall is inaccessible—five miles from anywhere. There was no trap at the station, so I had to walk, carrying my suitcase, and it was nearly dark before I arrived. It is a great wandering house, standing in a considerable park. I should judge it was of all sorts of ages and styles, starting on a half-timbered Elizabethan foundation and ending in a Victorian portico. Inside it was all panelling and tapestry and half-effaced old pictures, a house of shadows and mystery. There was a butler, old Ralph, who seemed about the same age as the house, and there was his wife, who might have been older. She had been Godfrey's nurse, and I had heard him speak of her as second only to his mother in his affections, so I was drawn to her in spite of her queer appearance. The mother I liked also—a gentle little white mouse of a woman. It was only the colonel himself whom I barred.

“We had a bit of barney right away, and I should have walked back to the station if I had not felt that it might be playing his game for me to do so. I was shown straight into his study, and there I found him, a huge, bow-backed man with a smoky skin and a straggling gray beard, seated behind his littered desk. A red-veined nose jutted out like a vulture's beak, and two fierce gray eyes glared at me from under tufted brows. I could understand now why Godfrey seldom spoke of his father.

“‘Well, sir,’ said he in a rasping voice, ‘I should be interested to know the real reasons for this visit.’

“I answered that I had explained them in my letter to his wife.

“‘Yes, yes, you said that you had known Godfrey in Africa. We have, of course, only your word for that.’

“‘I have his letters to me in my pocket.’

“‘Kindly let me see them.’

“He glanced at the two which I handed him, and then he tossed them back.

“‘Well, what then?’ he asked.

“‘I was fond of your son Godfrey, sir. Many ties and memories united us. Is it not natural that I should wonder at his sudden silence and should wish to know what has become of him?’

“‘I have some recollections, sir, that I had already corresponded with you and had told you what had become of him. He has gone upon a voyage round the world. His health was in a poor way after his African experiences, and both his mother and I were of opinion that complete rest and change were needed. Kindly pass that explanation on to any other friends who may be interested in the matter.’

“‘Certainly,’ I answered. ‘But perhaps you would have the goodness to let me have the name of the steamer and of the line by which he sailed, together with the date. I have no doubt that I should be able to get a letter through to him.’

“My request seemed both to puzzle and to irritate my host. His great eyebrows came down over his eyes, and he tapped his fingers impatiently on the table. He looked up at last with the expression of one who has seen his adversary make a dangerous move at chess, and has decided how to meet it.

“‘Many people, Mr. Dodd,’ said he, ‘would take offence at your infernal pertinacity and would think that this insistence had reached the point of damned impertinence.’

“‘You must put it down, sir, to my real love for your son.’

“‘Exactly. I have already made every allowance upon that score. I must ask you, however, to drop these inquiries. Every family has its own inner knowledge and its own motives, which cannot always be made clear to outsiders, however well-intentioned. My wife is anxious to hear something of Godfrey's past which you are in a position to tell her, but I would ask you to let the present and the future alone. Such inquiries serve no useful purpose, sir, and place us in a delicate and difficult position.’

“So I came to a dead end, Mr. Holmes. There was no getting past it. I could only pretend to accept the situation and register a vow inwardly that I would never rest until my friend's fate had been cleared up. It was a dull evening. We dined quietly, the three of us, in a gloomy, faded old room. The lady questioned me eagerly about her son, but the old man seemed morose and depressed. I was so bored by the whole proceeding that I made an excuse as soon as I decently could and retired to my bedroom. It was a large, bare room on the ground floor, as gloomy as the rest of the house, but after a year of sleeping upon the veldt, Mr. Holmes, one is not too particular about one's quarters. I opened the curtains and looked out into the garden, remarking that it was a fine night with a bright half-moon. Then I sat down by the roaring fire with the lamp on a table beside me, and endeavoured to distract my mind with a novel. I was interrupted, however, by Ralph, the old butler, who came in with a fresh supply of coals.

“‘I thought you might run short in the night-time, sir. It is bitter weather and these rooms are cold.’

“He hesitated before leaving the room, and when I looked round he was standing facing me with a wistful look upon his wrinkled face.

“‘Beg your pardon, sir, but I could not help hearing what you said of young Master Godfrey at dinner. You know, sir, that my wife nursed him, and so I may say I am his foster-father. It's natural we should take an interest. And you say he carried himself well, sir?’

“‘There was no braver man in the regiment. He pulled me out once from under the rifles of the Boers, or maybe I should not be here.’

“The old butler rubbed his skinny hands.

“‘Yes, sir, yes, that is Master Godfrey all over. He was always courageous. There's not a tree in the park, sir, that he has not climbed. Nothing would stop him. He was a fine boy—and oh, sir, he was a fine man.’

“I sprang to my feet.

“‘Look here!’ I cried. ‘You say he was. You speak as if he were dead. What is all this mystery? What has become of Godfrey Emsworth?’

“I gripped the old man by the shoulder, but he shrank away.

“‘I don't know what you mean, sir. Ask the master about Master Godfrey. He knows. It is not for me to interfere.’

“He was leaving the room, but I held his arm.

“‘Listen,’ I said. ‘You are going to answer one question before you leave if I have to hold you all night. Is Godfrey dead?’

“He could not face my eyes. He was like a man hypnotized. The answer was dragged from his lips. It was a terrible and unexpected one.

“‘I wish to God he was!’ he cried, and, tearing himself free, he dashed from the room.

“You will think, Mr. Holmes, that I returned to my chair in no very happy state of mind. The old man's words seemed to me to bear only one interpretation. Clearly my poor friend had become involved in some criminal or, at the least, disreputable transaction which touched the family honour. That stern old man had sent his son away and hidden him from the world lest some scandal should come to light. Godfrey was a reckless fellow. He was easily influenced by those around him. No doubt he had fallen into bad hands and been misled to his ruin. It was a piteous business, if it was indeed so, but even now it was my duty to hunt him out and see if I could aid him. I was anxiously pondering the matter when I looked up, and there was Godfrey Emsworth standing before me.”

My client had paused as one in deep emotion.

“Pray continue,” I said. “Your problem presents some very unusual features.”

“He was outside the window, Mr. Holmes, with his face pressed against the glass. I have told you that I looked out at the night. When I did so I left the curtains partly open. His figure was framed in this gap. The window came down to the ground and I could see the whole length of it, but it was his face which held my gaze. He was deadly pale—never have I seen a man so white. I reckon ghosts may look like that; but his eyes met mine, and they were the eyes of a living man. He sprang back when he saw that I was looking at him, and he vanished into the darkness.

“There was something shocking about the man, Mr. Holmes. It wasn't merely that ghastly face glimmering as white as cheese in the darkness. It was more subtle than that—something slinking, something furtive, something guilty— something very unlike the frank, manly lad that I had known. It left a feeling of horror in my mind.

“But when a man has been soldiering for a year or two with brother Boer as a playmate, he keeps his nerve and acts quickly. Godfrey had hardly vanished before I was at the window. There was an awkward catch, and I was some little time before I could throw it up. Then I nipped through and ran down the garden path in the direction that I thought he might have taken.

“It was a long path and the light was not very good, but it seemed to me something was moving ahead of me. I ran on and called his name, but it was no use. When I got to the end of the path there were several others branching in different directions to various outhouses. I stood hesitating, and as I did so I heard distinctly the sound of a closing door. It was not behind me in the house, but ahead of me, somewhere in the darkness. That was enough, Mr. Holmes, to assure me that what I had seen was not a vision. Godfrey had run away from me, and he had shut a door behind him. Of that I was certain.

“There was nothing more I could do, and I spent an uneasy night turning the matter over in my mind and trying to find some theory which would cover the facts. Next day I found the colonel rather more conciliatory, and as his wife remarked that there were some places of interest in the neighbourhood, it gave me an opening to ask whether my presence for one more night would incommode them. A somewhat grudging acquiescence from the old man gave me a clear day in which to make my observations. I was already perfectly convinced that Godfrey was in hiding somewhere near, but where and why remained to be solved.

“The house was so large and so rambling that a regiment might be hid away in it and no one the wiser. If the secret lay there it was difficult for me to penetrate it. But the door which I had heard close was certainly not in the house. I must explore the garden and see what I could find. There was no difficulty in the way, for the old people were busy in their own fashion and left me to my own devices.

“There were several small outhouses, but at the end of the garden there was a detached building of some size—large enough for a gardener's or a gamekeeper's residence. Could this be the place whence the sound of that shutting door had come? I approached it in a careless fashion as though I were strolling aimlessly round the grounds. As I did so, a small, brisk, bearded man in a black coat and bowler hat—not at all the gardener type—came out of the door. To my surprise, he locked it after him and put the key in his pocket. Then he looked at me with some surprise on his face.

“‘Are you a visitor here?’ he asked.

“I explained that I was and that I was a friend of Godfrey’s.

“‘What a pity that he should be away on his travels, for he would have so liked to see me,’ I continued.

“‘Quite so. Exactly,’ said he with a rather guilty air. ‘No doubt you will renew your visit at some more propitious time.’ He passed on, but when I turned I observed that he was standing watching me, half-concealed by the laurels at the far end of the garden.

“I had a good look at the little house as I passed it, but the windows were heavily curtained, and, so far as one could see, it was empty. I might spoil my own game and even be ordered off the premises if I were too audacious, for I was still conscious that I was being watched. Therefore, I strolled back to the house and waited for night before I went on with my inquiry. When all was dark and quiet I slipped out of my window and made my way as silently as possible to the mysterious lodge.

“I have said that it was heavily curtained, but now I found that the windows were shuttered as well. Some light, however, was breaking through one of them, so I concentrated my attention upon this. I was in luck, for the curtain had not been quite closed, and there was a crack in the shutter, so that I could see the inside of the room. It was a cheery place enough, a bright lamp and a blazing fire. Opposite to me was seated the little man whom I had seen in the morning. He was smoking a pipe and reading a paper.”

“What paper?” I asked.

My client seemed annoyed at the interruption of his narrative.

“Can it matter?” he asked.

“It is most essential.”

“I really took no notice.”

“Possibly you observed whether it was a broad-leafed paper or of that smaller type which one associates with weeklies.”

“Now that you mention it, it was not large. It might have been the Spectator. However, I had little thought to spare upon such details, for a second man was seated with his back to the window, and I could swear that this second man was Godfrey. I could not see his face, but I knew the familiar slope of his shoulders. He was leaning upon his elbow in an attitude of great melancholy, his body turned towards the fire. I was hesitating as to what I should do when there was a sharp tap on my shoulder, and there was Colonel Emsworth beside me.

“‘This way, sir!’ said he in a low voice. He walked in silence to the house, and I followed him into my own bedroom. He had picked up a time-table in the hall.

“‘There is a train to London at 8.30,’ said he. ‘The trap will be at the door at eight.’

“He was white with rage, and, indeed, I felt myself in so difficult a position that I could only stammer out a few incoherent apologies in which I tried to excuse myself by urging my anxiety for my friend.

“‘The matter will not bear discussion,’ said he abruptly. ‘You have made a most damnable intrusion into the privacy of our family. You were here as a guest and you have become a spy. I have nothing more to say, sir, save that I have no wish ever to see you again.’

“At this I lost my temper, Mr. Holmes, and I spoke with some warmth.

“‘I have seen your son, and I am convinced that for some reason of your own you are concealing him from the world. I have no idea what your motives are in cutting him off in this fashion, but I am sure that he is no longer a free agent. I warn you, Colonel Emsworth, that until I am assured as to the safety and well-being of my friend I shall never desist in my efforts to get to the bottom of the mystery, and I shall certainly not allow myself to be intimidated by anything which you may say or do.’

“The old fellow looked diabolical, and I really thought he was about to attack me. I have said that he was a gaunt, fierce old giant, and though I am no weakling I might have been hard put to it to hold my own against him. However, after a long glare of rage he turned upon his heel and walked out of the room. For my part, I took the appointed train in the morning, with the full intention of coming straight to you and asking for your advice and assistance at the appointment for which I had already written.”

Such was the problem which my visitor laid before me. It presented, as the astute reader will have already perceived, few difficulties in its solution, for a very limited choice of alternatives must get to the root of the matter. Still, elementary as it was, there were points of interest and novelty about it which may excuse my placing it upon record. I now proceeded, using my familiar method of logical analysis, to narrow down the possible solutions.

“The servants,” I asked; “how many were in the house?”

“To the best of my belief there were only the old butler and his wife. They seemed to live in the simplest fashion.”

“There was no servant, then, in the detached house?”

“None, unless the little man with the beard acted as such. He seemed, however, to be quite a superior person.”

“That seems very suggestive. Had you any indication that food was conveyed from the one house to the other?”

“Now that you mention it, I did see old Ralph carrying a basket down the garden walk and going in the direction of this house. The idea of food did not occur to me at the moment.”

“Did you make any local inquiries?”

“Yes, I did. I spoke to the station-master and also to the innkeeper in the village. I simply asked if they knew anything of my old comrade, Godfrey Emsworth. Both of them assured me that he had gone for a voyage round the world. He had come home and then had almost at once started off again. The story was evidently universally accepted.”

“You said nothing of your suspicions?”

“Nothing.”

“That was very wise. The matter should certainly be inquired into. I will go back with you to Tuxbury Old Park.”

“To-day?”

It happened that at the moment I was clearing up the case which my friend Watson has described as that of the Abbey School, in which the Duke of Greyminster was so deeply involved. I had also a commission from the Sultan of Turkey which called for immediate action, as political consequences of the gravest kind might arise from its neglect. Therefore it was not until the beginning of the next week, as my diary records, that I was able to start forth on my mission to Bedfordshire in company with Mr. James M. Dodd. As we drove to Euston we picked up a grave and taciturn gentleman of iron-gray aspect, with whom I had made the necessary arrangements.

“This is an old friend,” said I to Dodd. “It is possible that his presence may be entirely unnecessary, and, on the other hand, it may be essential. It is not necessary at the present stage to go further into the matter.”

The narratives of Watson have accustomed the reader, no doubt, to the fact that I do not waste words or disclose my thoughts while a case is actually under consideration. Dodd seemed surprised, but nothing more was said, and the three of us continued our journey together. In the train I asked Dodd one more question which I wished our companion to hear.

“You say that you saw your friend's face quite clearly at the window, so clearly that you are sure of his identity?”

“I have no doubt about it whatever. His nose was pressed against the glass. The lamplight shone full upon him.”

“It could not have been someone resembling him?”

“No, no, it was he.”

“But you say he was changed?”

“Only in colour. His face was—how shall I describe it?—it was of a fish-belly whiteness. It was bleached.”

“Was it equally pale all over?”

“I think not. It was his brow which I saw so clearly as it was pressed against the window.”

“Did you call to him?”

“I was too startled and horrified for the moment. Then I pursued him, as I have told you, but without result.”

My case was practically complete, and there was only one small incident needed to round it off. When, after a considerable drive, we arrived at the strange old rambling house which my client had described, it was Ralph, the elderly butler, who opened the door. I had requisitioned the carriage for the day and had asked my elderly friend to remain within it unless we should summon him. Ralph, a little wrinkled old fellow, was in the conventional costume of black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, with only one curious variant. He wore brown leather gloves, which at sight of us he instantly shuffled off, laying them down on the hall-table as we passed in. I have, as my friend Watson may have remarked, an abnormally acute set of senses, and a faint but incisive scent was apparent. It seemed to centre on the hall-table. I turned, placed my hat there, knocked it off, stooped to pick it up, and contrived to bring my nose within a foot of the gloves. Yes, it was undoubtedly from them that the curious tarry odour was oozing. I passed on into the study with my case complete. Alas, that I should have to show my hand so when I tell my own story! It was by concealing such links in the chain that Watson was enabled to produce his meretricious finales.

Colonel Emsworth was not in his room, but he came quickly enough on receipt of Ralph's message. We heard his quick, heavy step in the passage. The door was flung open and he rushed in with bristling beard and twisted features, as terrible an old man as ever I have seen. He held our cards in his hand, and he tore them up and stamped on the fragments.

“Have I not told you, you infernal busybody, that you are warned off the premises? Never dare to show your damned face here again. If you enter again without my leave I shall be within my rights if I use violence. I'll shoot you, sir! By God, I will! As to you, sir,” turning upon me, “I extend the same warning to you. I am familiar with your ignoble profession, but you must take your reputed talents to some other field. There is no opening for them here.”

“I cannot leave here,” said my client firmly, “until I hear from Godfrey's own lips that he is under no restraint.”

Our involuntary host rang the bell.

“Ralph,” he said, “telephone down to the county police and ask the inspector to send up two constables. Tell him there are burglars in the house.”

“One moment,” said I. “You must be aware, Mr. Dodd, that Colonel Emsworth is within his rights and that we have no legal status within his house. On the other hand, he should recognize that your action is prompted entirely by solicitude for his son. I venture to hope that if I were allowed to have five minutes’ conversation with Colonel Emsworth I could certainly alter his view of the matter.”

“I am not so easily altered,” said the old soldier. “Ralph, do what I have told you. What the devil are you waiting for? Ring up the police!”

“Nothing of the sort,” I said, putting my back to the door. “Any police interference would bring about the very catastrophe which you dread.” I took out my notebook and scribbled one word upon a loose sheet. “That,” said I as I handed it to Colonel Emsworth, “is what has brought us here.”

He stared at the writing with a face from which every expression save amazement had vanished.

“How do you know?” he gasped, sitting down heavily in his chair.

“It is my business to know things. That is my trade.”

He sat in deep thought, his gaunt hand tugging at his straggling beard. Then he made a gesture of resignation.

“Well, if you wish to see Godfrey, you shall. It is no doing of mine, but you have forced my hand. Ralph, tell Mr. Godfrey and Mr. Kent that in five minutes we shall be with them.”

At the end of that time we passed down the garden path and found ourselves in front of the mystery house at the end. A small bearded man stood at the door with a look of considerable astonishment upon his face.

“This is very sudden, Colonel Emsworth,” said he. “This will disarrange all our plans.”

“I can't help it, Mr. Kent. Our hands have been forced. Can Mr. Godfrey see us?”

“Yes, he is waiting inside.” He turned and led us into a large, plainly furnished front room. A man was standing with his back to the fire, and at the sight of him my client sprang forward with outstretched hand.

“Why, Godfrey, old man, this is fine!”

But the other waved him back.

“Don't touch me, Jimmie. Keep your distance. Yes, you may well stare! I don't quite look the smart Lance-Corporal Emsworth, of B Squadron, do I?”

His appearance was certainly extraordinary. One could see that he had indeed been a handsome man with clear-cut features sunburned by an African sun, but mottled in patches over this darker surface were curious whitish patches which had bleached his skin.

“That's why I don't court visitors,” said he. “I don't mind you, Jimmie, but I could have done without your friend. I suppose there is some good reason for it, but you have me at a disadvantage.”

“I wanted to be sure that all was well with you, Godfrey. I saw you that night when you looked into my window, and I could not let the matter rest till I had cleared things up.”

“Old Ralph told me you were there, and I couldn't help taking a peep at you. I hoped you would not have seen me, and I had to run to my burrow when I heard the window go up.”

“But what in heaven's name is the matter?”

“Well, it's not a long story to tell,” said he, lighting a cigarette. “You remember that morning fight at Buffelsspruit, outside Pretoria, on the Eastern railway line? You heard I was hit?”

“Yes, I heard that, but I never got particulars.”

“Three of us got separated from the others. It was very broken country, you may remember. There was Simpson—the fellow we called Baldy Simpson— and Anderson, and I. We were clearing brother Boer, but he lay low and got the three of us. The other two were killed. I got an elephant bullet through my shoulder. I stuck on to my horse, however, and he galloped several miles before I fainted and rolled off the saddle.

“When I came to myself it was nightfall, and I raised myself up, feeling very weak and ill. To my surprise there was a house close beside me, a fairly large house with a broad stoep and many windows. It was deadly cold. You remember the kind of numb cold which used to come at evening, a deadly, sickening sort of cold, very different from a crisp healthy frost. Well, I was chilled to the bone, and my only hope seemed to lie in reaching that house. I staggered to my feet and dragged myself along, hardly conscious of what I did. I have a dim memory of slowly ascending the steps, entering a wide-opened door, passing into a large room which contained several beds, and throwing myself down with a gasp of satisfaction upon one of them. It was unmade, but that troubled me not at all. I drew the clothes over my shivering body and in a moment I was in a deep sleep.

“It was morning when I wakened, and it seemed to me that instead of coming out into a world of sanity I had emerged into some extraordinary nightmare. The African sun flooded through the big, curtainless windows, and every detail of the great, bare, whitewashed dormitory stood out hard and clear. In front of me was standing a small, dwarf-like man with a huge, bulbous head, who was jabbering excitedly in Dutch, waving two horrible hands which looked to me like brown sponges. Behind him stood a group of people who seemed to be intensely amused by the situation, but a chill came over me as I looked at them. Not one of them was a normal human being. Every one was twisted or swollen or disfigured in some strange way. The laughter of these strange monstrosities was a dreadful thing to hear.

“It seemed that none of them could speak English, but the situation wanted clearing up, for the creature with the big head was growing furiously angry, and, uttering wild-beast cries, he had laid his deformed hands upon me and was dragging me out of bed, regardless of the fresh flow of blood from my wound. The little monster was as strong as a bull, and I don't know what he might have done to me had not an elderly man who was clearly in authority been attracted to the room by the hubbub. He said a few stern words in Dutch, and my persecutor shrank away. Then he turned upon me, gazing at me in the utmost amazement.

“‘How in the world did you come here?’ he asked in amazement. ‘Wait a bit! I see that you are tired out and that wounded shoulder of yours wants looking after. I am a doctor, and I'll soon have you tied up. But, man alive! you are in far greater danger here than ever you were on the battlefield. You are in the Leper Hospital, and you have slept in a leper's bed.’

“Need I tell you more, Jimmie? It seems that in view of the approaching battle all these poor creatures had been evacuated the day before. Then, as the British advanced, they had been brought back by this, their medical superintendent, who assured me that, though he believed he was immune to the disease, he would none the less never have dared to do what I had done. He put me in a private room, treated me kindly, and within a week or so I was removed to the general hospital at Pretoria.

“So there you have my tragedy. I hoped against hope, but it was not until I had reached home that the terrible signs which you see upon my face told me that I had not escaped. What was I to do? I was in this lonely house. We had two servants whom we could utterly trust. There was a house where I could live. Under pledge of secrecy, Mr. Kent, who is a surgeon, was prepared to stay with me. It seemed simple enough on those lines. The alternative was a dreadful one—segregation for life among strangers with never a hope of release. But absolute secrecy was necessary, or even in this quiet countryside there would have been an outcry, and I should have been dragged to my horrible doom. Even you, Jimmie—even you had to be kept in the dark. Why my father has relented I cannot imagine.”

Colonel Emsworth pointed to me.

“This is the gentleman who forced my hand.” He unfolded the scrap of paper on which I had written the word “Leprosy.” “It seemed to me that if he knew so much as that it was safer that he should know all.”

“And so it was,” said I. “Who knows but good may come of it? I understand that only Mr. Kent has seen the patient. May I ask, sir, if you are an authority on such complaints, which are, I understand, tropical or semi-tropical in their nature?”

“I have the ordinary knowledge of the educated medical man,” he observed with some stiffness.

“I have no doubt, sir, that you are fully competent, but I am sure that you will agree that in such a case a second opinion is valuable. You have avoided this, I understand, for fear that pressure should be put upon you to segregate the patient.”

“That is so,” said Colonel Emsworth.

“I foresaw this situation,” I explained, “and I have brought with me a friend whose discretion may absolutely be trusted. I was able once to do him a professional service, and he is ready to advise as a friend rather than as a specialist. His name is Sir James Saunders.”

The prospect of an interview with Lord Roberts would not have excited greater wonder and pleasure in a raw subaltern than was now reflected upon the face of Mr. Kent.

“I shall indeed be proud,” he murmured.

“Then I will ask Sir James to step this way. He is at present in the carriage outside the door. Meanwhile, Colonel Emsworth, we may perhaps assemble in your study, where I could give the necessary explanations.”

And here it is that I miss my Watson. By cunning questions and ejaculations of wonder he could elevate my simple art, which is but systematized common sense, into a prodigy. When I tell my own story I have no such aid. And yet I will give my process of thought even as I gave it to my small audience, which included Godfrey's mother in the study of Colonel Emsworth.

“That process,” said I, “starts upon the supposition that when you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. It may well be that several explanations remain, in which case one tries test after test until one or other of them has a convincing amount of support. We will now apply this principle to the case in point. As it was first presented to me, there were three possible explanations of the seclusion or incarceration of this gentleman in an outhouse of his father's mansion. There was the explanation that he was in hiding for a crime, or that he was mad and that they wished to avoid an asylum, or that he had some disease which caused his segregation. I could think of no other adequate solutions. These, then, had to be sifted and balanced against each other.

“The criminal solution would not bear inspection. No unsolved crime had been reported from that district. I was sure of that. If it were some crime not yet discovered, then clearly it would be to the interest of the family to get rid of the delinquent and send him abroad rather than keep him concealed at home. I could see no explanation for such a line of conduct.

“Insanity was more plausible. The presence of the second person in the outhouse suggested a keeper. The fact that he locked the door when he came out strengthened the supposition and gave the idea of constraint. On the other hand, this constraint could not be severe or the young man could not have got loose and come down to have a look at his friend. You will remember, Mr. Dodd, that I felt round for points, asking you, for example, about the paper which Mr. Kent was reading. Had it been the Lancet or the British Medical Journal it would have helped me. It is not illegal, however, to keep a lunatic upon private premises so long as there is a qualified person in attendance and that the authorities have been duly notified. Why, then, all this desperate desire for secrecy? Once again I could not get the theory to fit the facts.

“There remained the third possibility, into which, rare and unlikely as it was, everything seemed to fit. Leprosy is not uncommon in South Africa. By some extraordinary chance this youth might have contracted it. His people would be placed in a very dreadful position, since they would desire to save him from segregation. Great secrecy would be needed to prevent rumours from getting about and subsequent interference by the authorities. A devoted medical man, if sufficiently paid, would easily be found to take charge of the sufferer. There would be no reason why the latter should not be allowed freedom after dark. Bleaching of the skin is a common result of the disease. The case was a strong one—so strong that I determined to act as if it were actually proved. When on arriving here I noticed that Ralph, who carries out the meals, had gloves which are impregnated with disinfectants, my last doubts were removed. A single word showed you, sir, that your secret was discovered, and if I wrote rather than said it, it was to prove to you that my discretion was to be trusted.”

I was finishing this little analysis of the case when the door was opened and the austere figure of the great dermatologist was ushered in. But for once his sphinx-like features had relaxed and there was a warm humanity in his eyes. He strode up to Colonel Emsworth and shook him by the hand.

“It is often my lot to bring ill-tidings and seldom good,” said he. “This occasion is the more welcome. It is not leprosy.”

“What?”

“A well-marked case of pseudo-leprosy or ichthyosis, a scale-like affection of the skin, unsightly, obstinate, but possibly curable, and certainly noninfective. Yes, Mr. Holmes, the coincidence is a remarkable one. But is it coincidence? Are there not subtle forces at work of which we know little? Are we assured that the apprehension from which this young man has no doubt suffered terribly since his exposure to its contagion may not produce a physical effect which simulates that which it fears? At any rate, I pledge my professional reputation— But the lady has fainted! I think that Mr. Kent had better be with her until she recovers from this joyous shock.”

皮肤变白的军人

我朋友华生的某些想法虽然为数有限，却是执拗得出奇。很久以来他就一直在撺掇我自己写一篇办案记录。这也许是我自找的，因为我总是借机会对他指出他的描述是多么肤浅，并且指责他不严格遵守事实和数据，而是去迁就世俗的趣味。“你自己来试试吧！"这就是他的反驳。而轮到我提起笔来的时候，我也不得不承认，内容确乎是必须以一种吸引读者的方式来加以表达。下面记录的这件案子看来必然会吸引读者，因为它是我手里最稀奇的一件案子，而碰巧华生在他的集子里没有收进它。谈到我的老朋友和传记作者华生，我要在此说明，我之所以在我微不足道的研究工作中不嫌麻烦地添一个同伴，那不是出于感情用事和异想天开，而是因为华生确有其独到之处，但出于本身的谦虚以及对我工作的过高评价，他忽略了自己的特色。一个能预见你的结论和行动发展的合作者总是有危险一性一的，但如果每一步发展总是使他惊讶不止而未来总是使他迷糊，那倒确实是一个理想的伙伴。

根据我笔记本上的记载，那是在一九○三年一月，即布尔战争刚刚结束之际，詹姆斯-Ｍ-多德先生来找的我。他是一个魁梧挺拔、一精一神饱满、皮肤晒黑的英国公民。当时，忠实的华生由于结婚而离开了我，这是在我们一交一往过程中我所知道的他唯一的自私行为。当时我是一个人。

我的一习一惯是背靠窗子坐，而请来访者坐在我对面，让光线充分对着他们。詹姆斯-Ｍ-多德先生似乎不知道怎样开场。我也无意引导他，因为他的缄默给我更多的时间去观察他。我觉得使主顾感到我的力量是有好处的，于是我就把我观察的结论告诉了他一些。

“先生，看来您是从南非回来的。”

“不错，不错，"他惊讶地回答道。

“义勇骑兵部队，对不对？”

“正是。”

“一定是米德尔塞克斯军一团一。”

“完全正确。福尔摩斯先生，你真是魔术师。”

我对他的惊讶微微一笑。

“如果一位健壮的绅士进我屋来，肤色晒得黑的超过了英国气候所能达到的程度，手帕放在袖口里而不是放在衣袋里，那就不难决定他是从哪儿来的。你留着短须，说明你不是正规军。你的体态是骑手的体态。至于米德尔塞克斯么，你的名片上说你是思罗格莫顿街的股票商，你还能属于别的军一团一吗？”

“你真是洞察一切。”

“我和你看到的东西是一样的，只是我锻炼出来了，对所见到的加以注意而已。不过，你当然不是来跟我讨论观察术的。不知在图克斯伯里旧园林那儿出了什么事？”

“福尔摩斯先生！你——”

“没什么奇怪的，先生。你信上的邮戳是那里的，既然你约我见面是如此急迫，那显然是出了什么关系重大的事儿了。”

“不错，确实是这样，不过信是下午写的，从那会儿以来又发生了许多事情。要不是埃姆斯沃斯上校把我给踢出来的话——”

“踢出来！”

“哎，差不多。这是个硬心肠的人，这个埃姆斯沃斯上校。他当年是个最厉害的军纪官，而且那是一个流行骂人粗话的时代。要不是看在戈弗雷的面子上，我绝不会容忍老上校的无礼。”

我点燃烟斗，往椅背上一靠。

“你能否解释一下你说的话。”

我的主顾讽刺似地笑了。

“我已经一习一惯地认为不用说明你就已什么都知道了，"他说道。"我还是把事实情况都摆出来吧，我真希望你能告诉我这些事情到底说明什么问题。我整整一一夜没合眼在拼命想这事儿，却越想越觉得莫名片妙。

“我一九○一年一月参军的时候——那是整整两年以前——戈弗雷-埃姆斯沃斯也参加了我们中队。他是埃姆斯沃斯上校的独生子，上校是克里米亚战争中维多利亚勋章获得者，儿子有着战士的血液，所以参加了义勇气兵。在整个军一团一里也找不出比他强的小伙子了。我们成了好朋友，那种友谊只有在同甘共苦之中才能形成。他是我的伙伴——这在军队中是不寻常的友谊。在一年的艰苦战斗生活中我们同生死共患难。后来在比勒陀利亚界外的戴蒙德山谷附近的一次战斗中，他中了大号猎槍的子弹。我接到从开普敦医院发出的一封信，还有从南安普敦寄的一封信。后来就没有下文了，音信全无，福尔摩斯先生，六个多月没有一封信，而他是我最知己的朋友。

“战争结束以后，我们大家都回来了，我给他父亲写了一封信问戈弗雷在什么地方。没有回音。我等了一阵子，又写了一封信。这回收到了回信，又短又干，说是戈弗雷航海周游世界去了，一年也回不来。就是这么几句话。

“福尔摩斯先生，这没法儿让我安心。这事儿透着稀奇。他是一个够朋友的小伙子，绝不会就这么随便把知心朋友给忘了。这不象他的行为。碰巧我又听说他是一大笔遗产的继承人，他和他父亲的关系又不是那么总合得来。有时候这位老头儿有点压人，而戈弗雷的火起又有点大。我不能相信那封回信。我非得问个水落石出不可。谁知不巧我自己的事儿由于两年不在家也得清理一下，所以直到上星期我才开始办戈弗雷这档子事儿。不过，既然我要办这个事儿，我就把别的事一股脑儿都给放下了，非办完它不可。”

詹姆斯-Ｍ-多德先生似乎是那种人，你最好跟他做朋友而不要跟他做对头。他的蓝眼睛直盯着人，方形下巴绷得很紧。

“那么，你采取了什么步骤？"我问他。

“我的第一步是到他家——图克斯伯里旧庄园——去亲自看看到底是怎么个情况。于是我先给他母亲写了一封信——因为我对他父亲那个丧气老头子不耐烦了——而且来了一个正面攻击：我说戈弗雷是我的好朋友，我可以告诉她许多我们共同生活的有趣情况，我路过附近，能否顺路拜访一下？诸如此类等等。我收到一封相当热情的回信，说可以留我过夜。于是我星期一就去了。

“图克斯伯里旧庄园是个偏僻地方，无论在什么车站下车都还有五英里的距离。车站又没有马车，我只得步行，还拿着手提箱，所以傍晚才走到那里。那是一座曲曲折折的大宅子，在一个相当大的园子里头。我看这宅子是各个时代、各种建筑的大杂烩，从伊丽莎白时期半木结构的地基开始，一直到维多利亚的廊子，什么都有。屋里都是嵌板、壁毯和褪色的古画，是一座十足的一陰一森神秘的古屋。有一个老管家拉尔夫，年龄仿佛和屋子一样古老，还有他老婆，更古老。她原先是戈弗雷的一奶一母，我曾听他谈起她，犹如仅次于母亲，所以尽避她模样古怪，我还是对她有好感。我也喜欢他母亲——她是一个极其一温一柔的、小白鼠似的妇女。只有上校令我瞧着别扭。

“一见面我们就干了一场架。本来我立刻就想回车站，要不是我觉得这等于帮了他的忙，我早就走了。我被径直带到他的书房。我发现他坐在乱七八糟的书桌后面，体格高大，背部弯曲，肤色烟黑，一胡一子蓬乱。带红筋的鼻子象鹰嘴般突出，两只灰色的凶眼睛从浓密的眉一毛一底下瞪着我。一见之下我才理解，为什么戈弗雷难得提其他爸爸。

“'先生，'他以一种刺耳的声音说，‘我倒是有点想知道你这次来访的真正意图是什么。'

“我说我已经在给他妻子的信中说清楚了。

“'不错，不错，你说你在非洲认识戈弗雷。当然，我们只是听你那么一说。'

“'我口袋里有他写给我的信件。'

“'请让我看一看。'

“他把我递给他的两封信看了一遍，随手又扔给了我。

“'好吧，那又怎样？'

“'先生，我和你儿子戈弗雷是好朋友，共同经历的许多回忆把我们一团一结在一起，但他突然不给我音信了，我能不奇怪吗？我希望打听他的情况不是很自然吗？'

“'先生，我记得我已经跟你通过信，已经告诉你他的情况。他航海周游世界去了。他从非洲回来，健康情况不好，他母亲和我都认为他应该彻底休养，换换环境。请你把这个情况转告给一切关心这事儿的朋友们。'

“'一定照办，'我说。‘不过请你费神把轮船和航线的名称告诉我，还有起航的日期。说不定我可以设法给他寄一封信去。'

“我的这个请求似乎使主人又为难又生气。他的浓眉一毛一低落到他的双眼上面，他不耐烦地用手指敲着桌子。他终于抬起头来，那神气颇象一个下棋的人发现对手走了威胁一性一的一步棋而他已决定怎样去应付。

“'多德先生，'他说，‘你的固执会使许多人都感到无礼，并且会认为你已经达到无理取闹的地步。'

“'请你务必原谅我，这都是出于对你儿子的友情。'

“'当然。我已经充分考虑到这一点。不过我必须请你放弃这些请求。家家都有自己的内情，无法向外人说清，不管是多么善意的外人。我妻子非常想听听你讲戈弗雷过去的事，但我请求你不必管现在和将来的事，这种打听没有益处，只会使我们处境为难。'

“你看，福尔摩斯先生，我碰了钉子，毫无办法绕过它。我只好装做同意他的意见，但我心里暗自发誓不查清我朋友的下落绝不善罢甘休。那天晚上十分沉闷。我们三个人在一间一陰一暗的老屋子里默默无言地进餐。女主人倒是热切地向我询问有关她儿子的事情，但老头子满脸不高兴的样子。我对整个这件事感到十分不快，因此在礼貌允许的最早时刻我就辞别主人回到自己的客房。那是楼下一间宽敞空荡的屋子，象宅内别的房间一样。但是在南非草原生活一年之后谁也不会十分讲究居住条件了。我打开窗帘，朝园子望去，发现外面竟是晴朗之夜，那半圆的月亮在空中照着。之后我坐在熊熊的炉火旁边，身旁桌上放着台灯，我打算读小说来分散一下我的心思。可是我被老管家拉尔夫打断了，他拿来一些备用煤。

“'先生，我怕你夜间需要加煤。天气挺冷，这间屋子又不保暖。'

“他没有立刻走出去，却在屋内稍事停留，当我回头看他的时候，他正站在那里瞧着我，仿佛心里有事的样子。

“'对不起，先生，我禁不住听了你在餐桌上谈论戈弗雷少爷的事儿。你知道，我妻子当过他的一奶一母，所以我差不多可以说是他的养父，当然很关心他。你是说他表现很好吗，先生？'

“'他是全军一团一里最勇敢的人之一。有一次他把我从布尔人的槍林之中拖了出来，不然我今天也许就不在这儿了。'

“老管家兴奋地一搓一着他的瘦手。

“'就是，先生，正是那样，戈弗雷少爷就是那个样子。他打小就有勇气。庄园的每一棵树他都爬过。他什么也不害怕。他曾是一个好孩子，是的，他曾是一个棒小伙子。'

“我一下子跳起来。

“'嗨！'我大声说，‘你说他曾是棒小伙子。你的口气仿佛他不在世了。到底是怎么回事？戈弗雷到底出了什么事？'

“我抓住老头儿的肩膀，但他退缩开来。

“'先生，我不知道你说的是什么。请你问主人吧，他知道。我不能多管闲事。'

“他刚要走出去，我拉住了他的胳臂。

“'听着，'我说，‘你非得回答我一个问题才能走，要不我就拉住你一一夜不放。戈弗雷是死了吗？'

“他不敢直视我的眼睛。他象是被施了催眠术。他的回答是勉强从嘴里硬挤出来的，那是一个可怕的、出人意料的回答。

“'我宁愿他是死了的好！'他喊道。说着他使劲一扯，就跑出屋去了。

“福尔摩斯先生，你当然可以想象，我回到我原来坐的椅子上，心情是好不了的。老头儿刚才说的话对我来说只有一种解释。显然我的朋友是牵涉到什么犯罪事件，或者至少是什么不名誉的事儿，关乎家庭的荣誉了。严厉的父亲于是就把儿子送走，把他藏了起来，以免丑闻外扬。戈弗雷是一个不管不顾的冒失鬼。他往往受周围的人影响。显然他是落入了坏人之手并被引向犯罪了。如果真是这样，那是非常可惜的，但即使如此我也有责任把他找出来设法帮助他。我正在这样焦急地思索着，猛一抬头，只见戈弗雷就站在我面前。”

我的主顾讲到这里沉思地停了下来。

“请你讲下去吧。"我说。"你的案子很有一点特别的地方。”

“福尔摩斯先生，他是站在窗外，脸贴着玻璃。我刚才跟你说过我曾向窗外看夜色来着，窗帘一直半开着。他的身影就在帘子打开的地方。那是落地大窗，所以我可以看见他整个的身形，但使我吃惊的是他的脸。他面色惨白，我从没见他这样苍白过。我猜想鬼魂大概就是那个样子。但是他的眼睛对上了我的眼睛，我看见那是活人的眼睛。他一发现我看着他，就往后一跳，消失在黑夜里了。

“这个人的样子有一种十分令人吃惊的东西。倒不仅是那惨白如纸的面孔，而是一种更微妙的东西——一种见不得人的、罪责感的东西——这种东西非常不象我所熟知的坦率痛快的小伙子。我感到恐怖。

“但是一个人要是当了两年兵，成天和布尔人打一交一道，他的胆子是吓不坏的，遇见变故就会立即行动起来。戈弗雷刚一躲开，我就跳到窗前。窗子的开关不灵了，我花了一点时间才把它打开。随后我就钻跃出去，飞快地跑到花园小路上，朝着我认为他逃走的方向追去。

“这条小路很长，光线又有点暗，但是我总觉得前面有东西在跑。我向前冲上去，叫着他的名字，但是没有用。我跑到小径的尽头，这里有好几条岔路通向几个小屋。我犹豫了一下，这时我清楚地听见一扇门关上的声音。这声音不是来自我背后的屋子，而是从前方黑暗处传来的。福尔摩斯先生，这就足以证明我方才看见的不是幻影。戈弗雷确实从我眼前逃走了，并且关上了一扇门。这一点是肯定的。

“我没有什么办法可想了。这一一夜我过得非常不安宁，心里一直在盘算这个问题，打算找到一种理论来解释这些现象。第二天我觉得老上校多少缓和了一些。既然女主人声称附近有几个好玩的去处，我就趁机会问道，我再停留一晚有否不便。老头子勉强默认了，这就给我争取到一整天的时间去进行观察。我已经十分肯定地知道戈弗雷就在附近的什么地方藏着，但具体的地点以及原因还有待于解决。

“这座楼房又大又曲折，在里边藏上一个军一团一也没人知道。如果人是藏在楼房内部，那我是很难找到他的。但是我听见的门响不是在楼内。我只有到园子里去寻找这个秘密。这倒不难做到，因为那几个老人在忙着自己的事情，这就使我能去施行我的计划了。

“园子里有几个小屋，但是在园子尽头有一座稍具规模的建筑——足够园丁或护林人居住的了。难道是从这里发出的关门声响吗？我装做不经心的、仿佛随便散步的样子朝它走了过去。这当儿有一个矮小利落、蓄着一胡一须、身穿黑衣、头戴圆礼帽的男子从那屋门里走了出来——一点也不象园丁的样子。不料他出来后就把门倒锁上，把钥匙放在口袋里了。他一回身，发现了我，脸上顿时现出吃惊的神色。

“'你是本宅的客人吗？'他问我。

“我说是的，并且说我是戈弗雷的朋友。

“'真可惜他旅行去了，否则他会非常愿意见到我的，'我又这么解释着。

“'不错，不错，'他仿佛做了亏心事似地说着。'改个时间再来吧，'他说着就走开了。但当我回头看时，他却正躲在园子那头的桂树后面，站在那里观察着我。

“我一路走过去，仔细地看这座小房子，但窗子被严密地遮挡着，这使人看来它似乎是空的。如果我过分大胆窥一探，可能会因小失大，甚至被轰出去，因为我知道我在受人监视着。因此我就回到楼内，等着晚上再继续侦查。到天色大黑，人声寂静之后，我就从我的窗口溜了出去，悄悄地朝那神秘的住所走去。

“我刚才说这屋子被严密地遮挡着，现在我发现它还关着百叶窗。不过，有一扇窗子却透出了灯光，因此我就集中注意力从这儿往里瞧。算我走运，这里帘子并没有完全拉上，我可以看见屋里的情景。里面相当明亮洁净，壁火熊熊，灯光照耀。在我对面坐着我早上碰见的矮个男子，他吸着烟斗在读报纸。”

“什么报纸？"我问道。

我的主顾似乎不大高兴我打断了他的话。

“有关系么？"他反问道。

“关系重大。”

“我还真没留意。”

“也许你看出那是大张的报纸还是小本的周刊一类了吧？”

“对了，经你这么一提，我想岂不是大张。也许可能是《观察家》杂志。不过说实在的，我当时真顾不上这类小事儿了，因为屋里还有一个人背对窗子坐着，我敢说他就是戈弗雷。当然我看不见他的正脸，但我熟悉他的肩膀的形状。他用手支着头，形容十分忧郁，身一子朝着壁火。我刚要设法行动，突然有人重重地在我肩上拍了一下，原来上校就站在我身旁。

“'到这边来，先生！'他压低了声音说。他一言不发地走到楼内，我一直跟着他走到我的住房。他在门厅里拿起一张火车时刻表。

“'八点半有一班火车开往伦敦，'他说。‘马车八点钟在大门外。'

“他脸都气白了。而我呢，我感到自己的处境太尴尬了，我只能结结巴巴说几句前言不搭后语的道歉话，力求用对我朋友的担心来给自己解释。

“'这个问题用不着再谈，'他斩钉截铁地说道，‘你无一耻地侵犯了我们家庭的权利。你到这儿来是做为客人，但你成了暗探。先生，我只有一句话说，就是我不要再看见你。'

“这下子我也火儿了，我说了些不客气的话。

“'我看见你儿子了，我认为你是为了个人目的不让他见人的。我不知道你把他关起来的动机是什么，但我敢肯定他已失去行动自一由。我告诉你，上校，除非我确知我朋友是安全和健康的，否则我绝不会停止我的努力来弄清真相，我也绝不会被你的任何恐吓所吓倒。'

“这个老家伙面色变得象魔鬼一样凶，我真以为他可能动手。我方才说过他是一个瘦削的、狂一暴的高大老头子，虽说我不是弱者，我也很难对付他。但是他在狂怒地瞪了我半天之后转