Пригоди Шерлока Холмса
A Case of Identity
Aprofessionalcaseofgreatgravitywasengagingmyownattentionatthetime,andthewholeofnextdayIwasbusyatthebedsideofthesufferer. Itwasnotuntilcloseuponsixo’clockthatIfoundmyselffreeandwasabletospringintoahansomanddrivetoBakerStreet,halfafraidthatImightbetoolatetoassistatthedenouementofthelittlemystery. IfoundSherlockHolmesalone,however,halfasleep,withhislong,thinformcurledupintherecessesofhisarmchair. Aformidablearrayofbottlesandtest-tubes,withthepungentcleanlysmellofhydrochloricacid,toldmethathehadspenthisdayinthechemicalworkwhichwassodeartohim.
"Well,haveyousolvedit?"IaskedasIentered.
"Yes.Itwasthebisulphateofbaryta."
"No,no,themystery!"Icried.
"Oh,that! IthoughtofthesaltthatIhavebeenworkingupon. Therewasneveranymysteryinthematter,though,asIsaidyesterday,someofthedetailsareofinterest. Theonlydrawbackisthatthereisnolaw,Ifear,thatcantouchthescoundrel."
"Whowashe,then,andwhatwashisobjectindesertingMissSutherland?"
Thequestionwashardlyoutofmymouth,andHolmeshadnotyetopenedhislipstoreply,whenweheardaheavyfootfallinthepassageandatapatthedoor.
"Thisisthegirl’sstepfather,Mr.JamesWindibank,"saidHolmes. "Hehaswrittentometosaythathewouldbehereatsix. Comein!"
