The Adventure of the Dying Detective | Page 6

some letters and papers upon this table within my reach. Thank you. Now some of that
litter from the mantelpiece. Excellent, Watson! There is a sugar-tongs there. Kindly raise
that small ivory box with its assistance. Place it here among the papers. Good! You can
now go and fetch Mr. Culverton Smith, of 13 Lower Burke Street."
To tell the truth, my desire to fetch a doctor had somewhat weakened, for poor Holmes
was so obviously delirious that it seemed dangerous to leave him. However, he was as
eager now to consult the person named as he had been obstinate in refusing.
"I never heard the name," said I.

"Possibly not, my good Watson. It may surprise you to know that the man upon earth
who is best versed in this disease is not a medical man, but a planter. Mr. Culverton
Smith is a well-known resident of Sumatra, now visiting London. An outbreak of the
disease upon his plantation, which was distant from medical aid, caused him to study it
himself, with some rather far-reaching consequences. He is a very methodical person, and
I did not desire you to start before six, because I was well aware that you would not find
him in his study. If you could persuade him to come here and give us the benefit of his
unique experience of this disease, the investigation of which has been his dearest hobby, I
cannot doubt that he could help me."
I gave Holmes's remarks as a consecutive whole and will not attempt to indicate how they
were interrupted by gaspings for breath and those clutchings of his hands which indicated
the pain from which he was suffering. His appearance had changed for the worse during
the few hours that I had been with him. Those hectic spots were more pronounced, the
eyes shone more brightly out of darker hollows, and a cold sweat glimmered upon his
brow. He still retained, however, the jaunty gallantry of his speech. To the last gasp he
would always be the master.
"You will tell him exactly how you have left me," said he. "You will convey the very
impression which is in your own mind--a dying man--a dying and delirious man. Indeed,
I cannot think why the whole bed of the ocean is not one solid mass of oysters, so prolific
the creatures seem. Ah, I am wondering! Strange how the brain controls the brain! What
was I saying, Watson?"
"My directions for Mr. Culverton Smith."
"Ah, yes, I remember. My life depends upon it. Plead with him, Watson. There is no
good feeling between us. His nephew, Watson--I had suspicions of foul play and I
allowed him to see it. The boy died horribly. He has a grudge against me. You will soften
him, Watson. Beg him, pray him, get him here by any means. He can save me--only he!"
"I will bring him in a cab, if I have to carry him down to it."
"You will do nothing of the sort. You will persuade him to come. And then you will
return in front of him. Make any excuse so as not to come with him. Don't forget, Watson.
You won't fail me. You never did fail me. No doubt there are natural enemies which limit
the increase of the creatures. You and I, Watson, we have done our part. Shall the world,
then, be overrun by oysters? No, no; horrible! You'll convey all that is in your mind."
I left him full of the image of this magnificent intellect babbling like a foolish child. He
had handed me the key, and with a happy thought I took it with me lest he should lock
himself in. Mrs. Hudson was waiting, trembling and weeping, in the passage. Behind me
as I passed from the flat I heard Holmes's high, thin voice in some delirious chant. Below,
as I stood whistling for a cab, a man came on me through the fog.
"How is Mr. Holmes, sir?" he asked.
It was an old acquaintance, Inspector Morton, of Scotland Yard, dressed in unofficial

tweeds.
"He is very ill," I answered.
He looked at me in a most singular fashion. Had it not been too fiendish, I could have
imagined that the gleam of the fanlight showed exultation in his face.
"I heard some rumour of it," said he.
The cab had driven up, and I left him.
Lower Burke Street proved to be a line of fine houses lying in the vague borderland
between Notting Hill and Kensington. The particular one at which my cabman pulled up
had an air of smug and demure respectability in its old-fashioned iron railings, its
massive folding-door, and its shining brasswork. All was in keeping with a solemn butler
who appeared framed in the pink