Воспоминания Шерлока Холмса
The Crooked Man
"
Itwasmiddaywhenwefoundourselvesatthesceneofthetragedy,and,undermycompanion’sguidance,wemadeourwayatoncetoHudsonStreet.Inspiteofhiscapacityforconcealinghisemotions,IcouldeasilyseethatHolmeswasinastateofsuppressedexcitement,whileIwasmyselftinglingwiththathalf-sporting,half-intellectualpleasurewhichIinvariablyexperiencedwhenIassociatedmyselfwithhiminhisinvestigations.
"Thisisthestreet,"saidheasweturnedintoashortthoroughfarelinedwithplaintwo-storiedbrickhouses."Ah,hereisSimpsontoreport."
"He’sinallright,Mr.Holmes,"criedasmallstreetArab,runninguptous.
"Good,Simpson!"saidHolmes,pattinghimonthehead."Comealong,Watson.Thisisthehouse."Hesentinhiscardwithamessagethathehadcomeonimportantbusiness,andamomentlaterwewerefacetofacewiththemanwhomwehadcometosee.Inspiteofthewarmweatherhewascrouchingoverafire,andthelittleroomwaslikeanoven.Themansatalltwistedandhuddledinhischairinawaywhichgaveanindescribableimpressionofdeformity;butthefacewhichheturnedtowardsus,thoughwornandswarthy,mustatsometimehavebeenremarkableforitsbeauty.Helookedsuspiciouslyatusnowoutofyellow-shot,biliouseyes,and,withoutspeakingorrising,hewavedtowardstwochairs.
"Mr.HenryWood,lateofIndia,Ibelieve,"saidHolmesaffably.
