se writing of the details of that dreadful event. In the
event of your acceding to my request it is probably that I shall have
to narrate them to you. I have only just recovered from nine weeks of
brain-fever, and am still exceedingly weak. Do you think that you could
bring your friend Mr. Holmes down to see me? I should like to have his
opinion of the case, though the authorities assure me that nothing more
can be done. Do try to bring him down, and as soon as possible. Every
minute seems an hour while I live in this state of horrible suspense.
Assure him that if I have not asked his advice sooner it was not because
I did not appreciate his talents, but because I have been off my head
ever since the blow fell. Now I am clear again, though I dare not think
of it too much for fear of a relapse. I am still so weak that I have to
write, as you see, by dictating. Do try to bring him.

Your old school-fellow,

Percy Phelps.

There was something that touched me as I read this letter, something
pitiable in the reiterated appeals to bring Holmes. So moved was I
that even had it been a difficult matter I should have tried it, but
of course I knew well that Holmes loved his art, so that he was ever
as ready to bring his aid as his client could be to receive it. My wife
agreed with me that not a moment should be lost in laying the matter
before him, and so within an hour of breakfast-time I found myself back
once more in the old rooms in Baker Street.

Holmes was seated at his side-table clad in his dressing-gown, and
working hard over a chemical investigation. A large curved retort
was boiling furiously in the bluish flame of a Bunsen burner, and the
distilled drops were condensing into a two-litre measure. My friend
hardly glanced up as I entered, and I, seeing that his investigation
must be of importance, seated myself in an arm-chair and waited. He
dipped into this bottle or that, drawing out a few drops of each with
his glass pipette, and finally brought a test-tube containing a solution
over to the table. In his right hand he held a slip of litmus-paper.

"You come at a crisis, Watson," said he. "If this paper remains blue,
all is well. If it turns red, it means a man's life." He dipped it into
the test-tube and it flushed at once into a dull, dirty crimson. "Hum!
I thought as much!" he cried. "I will be at your service in an instant,
Watson. You will find tobacco in the Persian slipper." He turned to his
desk and scr