The Complete Short Stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated Edition). Arthur Conan Doyle

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      Our visitor sniggered.

      “You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does. Do you know what is the matter with you?”

      “The same,” said Holmes.

      “Ah! You recognize the symptoms?”

      “Only too well.”

      “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn’t be surprised if it were the same. A bad lookout for you if it is. Poor Victor was a dead man on the fourth day — a strong, hearty young fellow. It was certainly, as you said, very surprising that he should have contracted an out-of-the-way Asiatic disease in the heart of London — a disease, too, of which I had made such a very special study. Singular coincidence, Holmes. Very smart of you to notice it, but rather uncharitable to suggest that it was cause and effect.”

      “I knew that you did it.”

      “Oh, you did, did you? Well, you couldn’t prove it, anyhow. But what do you think of yourself spreading reports about me like that, and then crawling to me for help the moment you are in trouble? What sort of a game is that — eh?”

      I heard the rasping, laboured breathing of the sick man. “Give me the water!” he gasped.

      “You’re precious near your end, my friend, but I don’t want you to go till I have had a word with you. That’s why I give you water. There, don’t slop it about! That’s right. Can you understand what I say?”

      Holmes groaned.

      “Do what you can for me. Let bygones be bygones,” he whispered. “I’ll put the words out of my head — I swear I will. Only cure me, and I’ll forget it.”

      “Forget what?”

      “Well, about Victor Savage’s death. You as good as admitted just now that you had done it. I’ll forget it.”

      “You can forget it or remember it, just as you like. I don’t see you in the witness-box. Quite another shaped box, my good Holmes, I assure you. It matters nothing to me that you should know how my nephew died. It’s not him we are talking about. It’s you.”

      “Yes, yes.”

      “The fellow who came for me — I’ve forgotten his name — said that you contracted it down in the East End among the sailors.”

      “I could only account for it so.”

      “You are proud of your brains, Holmes, are you not? Think yourself smart, don’t you? You came across someone who was smarter this time. Now cast your mind back, Holmes. Can you think of no other way you could have got this thing?”

      “I can’t think. My mind is gone. For heaven’s sake help me! ”

      “Yes, I will help you. I’ll help you to understand just where you are and how you got there. I’d like you to know before you die.”

      “Give me something to ease my pain.”

      “Painful, is it? Yes, the coolies used to do some squealing towards the end. Takes you as cramp, I fancy.”

      “Yes, yes; it is cramp.”

      “Well, you can hear what I say, anyhow. Listen now! Can you remember any unusual incident in your life just about the time your symptoms began?”

      “No, no; nothing.”

      “Think again.”

      “I’m too ill to think.”

      “Well, then, I’ll help you. Did anything come by post?”

      “By post?”

      “A box by chance?”

      “I’m fainting — I’m gone!”

      “Listen, Holmes!” There was a sound as if he was shaking the dying man, and it was all that I could do to hold myself quiet in my hiding-place. “You must hear me. You shall hear me. Do you remember a box — an ivory box? It came on Wednesday. You opened it — do you remember?”

      “Yes, yes, I opened it. There was a sharp spring inside it. Some joke —”

      “It was no joke, as you will find to your cost. You fool, you would have it and you have got it. Who asked you to cross my path? If you had left me alone I would not have hurt you.”

      “I remember,” Holmes gasped. “The spring! It drew blood. This box — this on the table.”

      “The very one, by George! And it may as well leave the room in my pocket. There goes your last shred of evidence. But you have the truth now, Holmes, and you can die with the knowledge that I killed you. You knew too much of the fate of Victor Savage, so I have sent you to share it. You are very near your end, Holmes. I will sit here and I will watch you die.”

      Holmes’s voice had sunk to an almost inaudible whisper.

      “What is that?” said Smith. “Turn up the gas? Ah, the shadows begin to fall, do they? Yes, I will turn it up, that I may see you the better.” He crossed the room and the light suddenly brightened. “Is there any other little service that I can do you, my friend?”

      “A match and a cigarette.”

      I nearly called out in my joy and my amazement. He was speaking in his natural voice — a little weak, perhaps, but the very voice I knew. There was a long pause, and I felt that Culverton Smith was standing in silent amazement looking down at his companion.

      “What’s the meaning of this?” I heard him say at last in a dry, rasping tone.

      “The best way of successfully acting a part is to be it,” said Holmes. “I give you my word that for three days I have tasted neither food nor drink until you were good enough to pour me out that glass of water. But it is the tobacco which I find most irksome. Ah, here are some cigarettes.” I heard the striking of a match. “That is very much better. Halloa! halloa! Do I hear the step of a friend?”

      There were footfalls outside, the door opened, and Inspector Morton appeared.

      “All is in order and this is your man,” said Holmes.

      The officer gave the usual cautions.

      “I arrest you on the charge of the murder of one Victor Savage,” he concluded.

      “And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes,” remarked my friend with a chuckle. “To save an invalid trouble, Inspector, Mr. Culverton Smith was good enough to give our signal by turning up the gas. By the way, the prisoner has a small box in the right-hand pocket of his coat which it would be as well to remove. Thank you. I would handle it gingerly if I were you. Put it down here. It may play its part in the trial.”

      There was a sudden rush and a scuffle, followed by the clash of iron and a cry of pain.

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