Етюд у багряних тонах
What John Rance had to tell.
Atoneo’clockitbegantorain,andImetHarryMurcher—himwhohastheHollandGrovebeat—andwestoodtogetheratthecornerofHenriettaStreeta-talkin’. Presently—maybeabouttwooralittleafter—IthoughtIwouldtakealookroundandseethatallwasrightdowntheBrixtonRoad. Itwaspreciousdirtyandlonely. NotasouldidImeetallthewaydown,thoughacabortwowentpastme. Iwasastrollin’down,thinkin’betweenourselveshowuncommonhandyafourofginhotwouldbe,whensuddenlytheglintofalightcaughtmyeyeinthewindowofthatsamehouse. Now,IknewthatthemtwohousesinLauristonGardenswasemptyonaccountofhimthatownsthemwhowon’thavethedrainsseento,thoughtheverylasttenantwhatlivedinoneofthemdiedo’typhoidfever. Iwasknockedallinaheapthereforeatseeingalightinthewindow,andIsuspectedassomethingwaswrong. WhenIgottothedoor——”
“Youstopped,andthenwalkedbacktothegardengate,”mycompanioninterrupted. “Whatdidyoudothatfor?”
Rancegaveaviolentjump,andstaredatSherlockHolmeswiththeutmostamazementuponhisfeatures.
“Why,that’strue,sir,”hesaid;“thoughhowyoucometoknowit,Heavenonlyknows. Yesee,whenIgotuptothedooritwassostillandsolonesome,thatIthoughtI’dbenonetheworseforsomeonewithme. Iain’tafearedofanythingonthissideo’thegrave; butIthoughtthatmaybeitwashimthatdiedo’thetyphoidinspectingthedrainswhatkilledhim.
