man of habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one
of them. As an institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco,
the old black pipe, the index books, and others perhaps less
excusable. When it was a case of active work and a comrade was needed
upon whose nerve he could place some reliance, my role was obvious.
But apart from this I had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind. I
stimulated him. He liked to think aloud in my presence. His remarks
could hardly be said to be made to me--many of them would have been
as appropriately addressed to his bedstead--but none the less, having
formed the habit, it had become in some way helpful that I should
register and interject. If I irritated him by a certain methodical
slowness in my mentality, that irritation served only to make his own
flame-like intuitions and impressions flash up the more vividly and
swiftly. Such was my humble role in our alliance.
When I arrived at Baker Street I found him huddled up in his armchair
with updrawn knees, his pipe in his mouth and his brow furrowed with
thought. It was clear that he was in the throes of some vexatious
problem. With a wave of his hand he indicated my old armchair, but
otherwise for half an hour he gave no sign that he was aware of my
presence. Then with a start he seemed to come from his reverie, and
with his usual whimsical smile he greeted me back to what had once
been my home.
"You will excuse a certain abstraction of mind, my dear Watson," said
he. "Some curious facts have been submitted to me within the last
twenty-four hours, and they in turn have given rise to some
speculations of a more general character. I have serious thoughts of
writing a small monograph upon the uses of dogs in the work of the
detective."
"But surely, Holmes, this has been explored," said I.
"Bloodhounds--sleuth-hounds--"
"No, no, Watson, that side of the matter is, of course, obvious. But
there is another which is far more subtle. You may recollect that in
the case which you, in your sensational way, coupled with the Copper
Beeches, I was able, by watching the mind of the child, to form a
deduction as to the criminal habits of the very smug and respectable
father."
"Yes, I remember it well."
"My line of thoughts about dogs is analogous. A dog reflects the
family life. Whoever saw a frisky dog in a gloomy family, or a sad
dog in a happy one? Snarling people have snarling dogs, dangerous
people have dangerous ones. And their passing moods may reflect the
passing moods of others."
I shook my head. "Surely, Holmes, this is a little far-fetched," said
I.
He had refilled his pipe and resumed his seat, taking no notice of my
comment.
"The practical application of what I have said is very close to the
problem which I am investigating. It is a tangled skein, you
understand, and I am looking for a loose end. One possible loose end
lies in the question: Why does Professor Presbury's wolfhound, Roy,
endeavour to bite him?"
I sank back in my chair in some disappointment. Was it for so trivial
a question as this that I had been summoned from my work? Holmes
glanced across at me.
"The same old Watson!" said he. "You never learn that the gravest
issues may depend upon the smallest things. But is it not on the face
of it strange that a staid, elderly philosopher--you've heard of
Presbury, of course, the famous Camford physiologist?--that such a
man, whose friend has been his devoted wolfhound, should now have
been twice attacked by his own dog? What do you make of it?"
"The dog is ill."
"Well, that has to be considered. But he attacks no one else, nor
does he apparently molest his master, save on very special occasions.
Curious, Watson--very curious. But young Mr. Bennett is before his
time if that is his ring. I had hoped to have a longer chat with you
before he came."
There was a quick step on the stairs, a sharp tap at the door, and a
moment later the new client presented himself. He was a tall,
handsome youth about thirty, well dressed and elegant, but with
something in his bearing which suggested the shyness of the student
rather than the self-possession of the man of the world. He shook
hands with Holmes, and then looked with some surprise at me.
"This matter is very delicate, Mr. Holmes," he said. "Consider the
relation in which I stand to Professor Presbury both privately and
publicly. I really can hardly justify myself if I speak before any
third person."
"Have no fear, Mr. Bennett. Dr. Watson is the very soul of
discretion, and I can assure you that this is a matter in which I am
very likely to need an assistant."
"As you like, Mr. Holmes. You will, I am sure, understand my having
some reserves in the matter."
"You will appreciate it, Watson, when I tell you that this gentleman,
Mr. Trevor Bennett, is professional assistant to the great scientist,
lives under his roof, and is engaged to his only daughter. Certainly
we must agree that the professor has every claim upon his loyalty and
devotion. But it may best be shown by taking the necessary steps to
clear up this strange mystery."
"I hope so, Mr. Holmes. That is my one object. Does Dr. Watson know
the situation?"
"I have not had time to explain it."
"Then perhaps I had better go over the ground again before explaining
some fresh developments."
"I will do so myself," said Holmes, "in order to show that I have the
events in their due order. The professor, Watson, is a man of
European reputation. His life has been academic. There has never been
a breath of scandal. He is a widower with one daughter, Edith. He is,
I gather, a man of very virile and positive, one might almost say
combative, character. So the matter stood until a very few months
ago.
"Then the current of his life was broken. He is sixty-one years of
age, but he became engaged to the daughter of Professor Morphy, his
colleague in the chair of comparative anatomy. It was not, as I
understand, the reasoned courting of an elderly man but rather the
passionate frenzy of youth, for no one could have shown himself a
more devoted lover. The lady, Alice Morphy, was a very perfect girl
both in mind and body, so that there was every excuse for the
professor's infatuation. None the less, it did not meet with full
approval in his own family."
"We thought it rather excessive," said our visitor.
"Exactly. Excessive and a little violent and unnatural. Professor
Presbury was rich, however, and there was no objection upon the part
of the father. The daughter, however, had other views, and there were
already several candidates for her hand, who, if they were less
eligible from a worldly point of view, were at least more of an age.
The girl seemed to like the professor in spite of his eccentricities.
It was only age which stood in the way.
"About this time a little mystery suddenly clouded the normal routine
of the professor's life. He did what he had never done before. He
left home and gave no indication where he was going. He was away a
fortnight and returned looking rather travel-worn. He made no
allusion to where he had been, although he was usually the frankest
of men. It chanced, however, that our client here, Mr. Bennett,
received a letter from a fellow-student in Prague, who said that he
was glad to have seen Professor Presbury there, although he had not
been able to talk to him. Only in this way did his own household
learn where he had been.
"Now comes the point. From that time onward a curious change came
over the professor. He became furtive and sly. Those around him had
always the feeling that he was not the man that they had known, but
that he was under some shadow which had darkened his higher
qualities. His intellect was not affected. His lectures were as
brilliant as ever. But always there was something new, something
sinister and unexpected. His daughter, who was devoted to him, tried
again and again to resume the old relations and to penetrate this
mask which her father seemed to have put on. You, sir, as I
understand, did the same--but all was in vain. And now, Mr. Bennett,
tell in your own words the incident of the letters."
"You must understand, Dr. Watson, that the professor had no secrets
from me. If I were his son or his younger brother I could not have
more completely enjoyed his confidence. As his secretary I handled
every paper which came to him, and I opened and subdivided his
letters. Shortly after his return all this was changed. He told me
that certain letters might come to him from London which would be
marked by a cross under the stamp. These were to be set aside for his
own eyes only. I may say that several of these did pass through my
hands, that they had the E. C. mark, and were in an illiterate
handwriting. If he answered them at all the answers did not pass
through my hands nor into the letter-basket in which our
correspondence was collected."
"And the box," said Holmes.
"Ah, yes, the box. The professor brought back a little wooden box
from his travels. It was the one thing which suggested a Continental
tour, for it was one of those quaint carved things which one
associates with Germany. This he placed in his instrument cupboard.
One day, in looking for a canula, I took up the box. To my surprise
he was very angry, and reproved me in words which were quite savage
for my curiosity. It was the first time such a thing had happened,
and I was deeply hurt. I endeavoured to explain that it was a mere
accident that I had touched the box, but all the evening I was
conscious that he looked at me harshly and that the incident was
rankling in his mind." Mr. Bennett drew a little diary book from his
pocket. "That was on July 2d," said he.
"You are certainly an admirable witness," said Holmes. "I may need
some of these dates which you have noted."
"I learned method among other things from my great teacher. From the
time that I observed abnormality in his behaviour I felt that it was
my duty to study his case. Thus I have it here that it was on that
very day, July 2d, that Roy attacked the professor as he came from
his study into the hall. Again, on July 11th, there was a scene of
the same sort, and then I have a note of yet another upon July 20th.
After that we had to banish Roy to the stables. He was a dear,
affectionate animal--but I fear I weary you."
Mr. Bennett spoke in a tone of reproach, for it was very clear that
Holmes was not listening. His face was rigid and his eyes gazed
abstractedly at the ceiling. With an effort he recovered himself.
"Singular! Most singular!" he murmured. "These details were new to
me, Mr. Bennett. I think we have now fairly gone over the old ground,
have we not? But you spoke of some fresh developments."
The pleasant, open face of our visitor clouded over, shadowed by some
grim remembrance. "What I speak of occurred the night before last,"
said he. "I was lying awake about two in the morning, when I was
aware of a dull muffled sound coming from the passage. I opened my
door and peeped out. I should explain that the professor sleeps at
the end of the passage--"
"The date being--?" asked Holmes.
Our visitor was clearly annoyed at so irrelevant an interruption.
"I have said, sir, that it was the night before last--that is,
September 4th."
Holmes nodded and smiled.
"Pray continue," said he.
"He sleeps at the end of the passage and would have to pass my door
in order to reach the staircase. It was a really terrifying
experience, Mr. Holmes. I think that I am as strong-nerved as my
neighbours, but I was shaken by what I saw. The passage was dark save
that one window halfway along it threw a patch of light. I could see
that something was coming along the passage, something dark and
crouching. Then suddenly it emerged into the light, and I saw that it
was he. He was crawling, Mr. Holmes--crawling! He was not quite on
his hands and knees. I should rather say on his hands and feet, with
his face sunk between his hands. Yet he seemed to move with ease. I
was so paralyzed by the sight that it was not until he had reached my
door that I was able to step forward and ask if I could assist him.
His answer was extraordinary. He sprang up, spat out some atrocious
word at me, and hurried on past me, and down the staircase. I waited
about for an hour, but he did not come back. It must have been
daylight before he regained his room."
"Well, Watson, what make you of that?" asked Holmes with the air of
the pathologist who presents a rare specimen.
"Lumbago, possibly. I have known a severe attack make a man walk in
just such a way, and nothing would be more trying to the temper."
"Good, Watson! You always keep us flat-footed on the ground. But we
