Знак четырех
IV. The Story of the Bald-Headed Man
Twogreattiger-skinsthrownathwartitincreasedthesuggestionofEasternluxury,asdidahugehookahwhichstooduponamatinthecorner.Alampinthefashionofasilverdovewashungfromanalmostinvisiblegoldenwireinthecentreoftheroom.Asitburneditfilledtheairwithasubtleandaromaticodour.
“Mr.ThaddeusSholto,”saidthelittleman,stilljerkingandsmiling.“Thatismyname.YouareMissMorstan,ofcourse.Andthesegentlemen—”
“ThisisMr.SherlockHolmes,andthisisDr.Watson.”
“Adoctor,eh?”criedhe,muchexcited.“Haveyouyourstethoscope?MightIaskyou—wouldyouhavethekindness?Ihavegravedoubtsastomymitralvalve,ifyouwouldbesoverygood.TheaorticImayrelyupon,butIshouldvalueyouropinionuponthemitral.”
Ilistenedtohisheart,asrequested,butwasunabletofindanythingamiss,saveindeedthathewasinanecstasyoffear,forheshiveredfromheadtofoot.“Itappearstobenormal,”Isaid.“Youhavenocauseforuneasiness.”
“Youwillexcusemyanxiety,MissMorstan,”heremarked,airily.“Iamagreatsufferer,andIhavelonghadsuspicionsastothatvalve.Iamdelightedtohearthattheyareunwarranted.Hadyourfather,MissMorstan,refrainedfromthrowingastrainuponhisheart,hemighthavebeenalivenow.”
Icouldhavestruckthemanacrosstheface,sohotwasIatthiscallousandoff-handreferencetosodelicateamatter.MissMorstansatdown,andherfacegrewwhitetothelips.“Iknewinmyheartthathewasdead,”saidshe.
