The Naval Treaty - Page 2

career.

There is no use 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 scribbled off several telegrams, which were
handed over to the page-boy. Then he threw himself
down into the chair opposite, and drew up his knees
until his fingers