Приключения Шерлока Холмса
The Man with the Twisted Lip
Itwassoonevidenttomethathewasnowpreparingforanall-nightsitting. Hetookoffhiscoatandwaistcoat,putonalargebluedressing-gown,andthenwanderedabouttheroomcollectingpillowsfromhisbedandcushionsfromthesofaandarmchairs. WiththeseheconstructedasortofEasterndivan,uponwhichheperchedhimselfcrosslegged,withanounceofshagtobaccoandaboxofmatcheslaidoutinfrontofhim. InthedimlightofthelampIsawhimsittingthere,anoldbriarpipebetweenhislips,hiseyesfixedvacantlyuponthecorneroftheceiling,thebluesmokecurlingupfromhim,silent,motionless,withthelightshininguponhisstrong-setaquilinefeatures. SohesatasIdroppedofftosleep,andsohesatwhenasuddenejaculationcausedmetowakeup,andIfoundthesummersunshiningintotheapartment. Thepipewasstillbetweenhislips,thesmokestillcurledupward,andtheroomwasfullofadensetobaccohaze,butnothingremainedoftheheapofshagwhichIhadseenuponthepreviousnight.
"Awake,Watson?"heasked.
"Yes."
"Gameforamorningdrive?"
"Certainly."
"Thendress. Nooneisstirringyet,butIknowwherethestable-boysleeps,andweshallsoonhavethetrapout." Hechuckledtohimselfashespoke,hiseyestwinkled,andheseemedadifferentmantothesombrethinkerofthepreviousnight.
AsIdressedIglancedatmywatch. Itwasnowonderthatnoonewasstirring. Itwastwenty-fiveminutespastfour. IhadhardlyfinishedwhenHolmesreturnedwiththenewsthattheboywasputtinginthehorse.
