Повернення Шерлока Холмса

           NeverhadIknownmyfriendmoremoved,andyetthedarkstreetstillstretchedlonelyandmotionlessbeforeus.

           ButsuddenlyIwasawareofthatwhichhiskeenersenseshadalreadydistinguished.Alow,stealthysoundcametomyears,notfromthedirectionofBakerStreet,butfromthebackoftheveryhouseinwhichwelayconcealed.Adooropenedandshut.Aninstantlaterstepscreptdownthepassage—stepswhichweremeanttobesilent,butwhichreverberatedharshlythroughtheemptyhouse.Holmescrouchedbackagainstthewall,andIdidthesame,myhandclosinguponthehandleofmyrevolver.Peeringthroughthegloom,Isawthevagueoutlineofaman,ashadeblackerthantheblacknessoftheopendoor.Hestoodforaninstant,andthenhecreptforward,crouching,menacing,intotheroom.Hewaswithinthreeyardsofus,thissinisterfigure,andIhadbracedmyselftomeethisspring,beforeIrealizedthathehadnoideaofourpresence.Hepassedclosebesideus,stoleovertothewindow,andverysoftlyandnoiselesslyraiseditforhalfafoot.Ashesanktothelevelofthisopening,thelightofthestreet,nolongerdimmedbythedustyglass,fellfulluponhisface.Themanseemedtobebesidehimselfwithexcitement.Histwoeyesshonelikestars,andhisfeatureswereworkingconvulsively.Hewasanelderlyman,withathin,projectingnose,ahigh,baldforehead,andahugegrizzledmoustache.Anoperahatwaspushedtothebackofhishead,andaneveningdressshirt-frontgleamedoutthroughhisopenovercoat.Hisfacewasgauntandswarthy,scoredwithdeep,savagelines.