Этюд в багровых тонах
What John Rance had to tell.
“I’veseenmanyadrunkchapinmytime,”hesaid,“butneveranyonesocryin’drunkasthatcove. HewasatthegatewhenIcameout,a-leanin’upagintherailings,anda-singin’atthepitcho’hislungsaboutColumbine’sNew-fangledBanner,orsomesuchstuff. Hecouldn’tstand,farlesshelp.”
“Whatsortofamanwashe?”askedSherlockHolmes.
JohnRanceappearedtobesomewhatirritatedatthisdigression. “Hewasanuncommondrunksorto’man,”hesaid. “He’dha’foundhisselfinthestationifwehadn’tbeensotookup.”
“Hisface—hisdress—didn’tyounoticethem?”Holmesbrokeinimpatiently.
“IshouldthinkIdidnoticethem,seeingthatIhadtoprophimup—meandMurcherbetweenus. Hewasalongchap,witharedface,thelowerpartmuffledround——”
“Thatwilldo,”criedHolmes. “Whatbecameofhim?”
“We’denoughtodowithoutlookin’afterhim,”thepolicemansaid,inanaggrievedvoice. “I’llwagerhefoundhiswayhomeallright.”
“Howwashedressed?”
“Abrownovercoat.”
“Hadheawhipinhishand?”
“Awhip—no.”
“Hemusthaveleftitbehind,”mutteredmycompanion. “Youdidn’thappentoseeorhearacabafterthat?”
“No.”
“There’sahalf-sovereignforyou,”mycompanionsaid,standingupandtakinghishat. “Iamafraid,Rance,thatyouwillneverriseintheforce. Thatheadofyoursshouldbeforuseaswellasornament. Youmighthavegainedyoursergeant’sstripeslastnight.
