The Return of Sherlock Holmes | Page 5

investigation. I confess that I made little
progress. In the evening I strolled across the Park, and found myself
about six o'clock at the Oxford Street end of Park Lane. A group of
loafers upon the pavements, all staring up at a particular window,
directed me to the house which I had come to see. A tall, thin man with
coloured glasses, whom I strongly suspected of being a plain-clothes
detective, was pointing out some theory of his own, while the others
crowded round to listen to what he said. I got as near him as I could,
but his observations seemed to me to be absurd, so I withdrew again in
some disgust. As I did so I struck against an elderly deformed man,
who had been behind me, and I knocked down several books which he
was carrying. I remember that as I picked them up I observed the title
of one of them, "The Origin of Tree Worship," and it struck me that the
fellow must be some poor bibliophile who, either as a trade or as a
hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes. I endeavoured to apologize
for the accident, but it was evident that these books which I had so
unfortunately maltreated were very precious objects in the eyes of their
owner. With a snarl of contempt he turned upon his heel, and I saw his
curved back and white side-whiskers disappear among the throng.
My observations of No. 427, Park Lane did little to clear up the
problem in which I was interested. The house was separated from the
street by a low wall and railing, the whole not more than five feet high.
It was perfectly easy, therefore, for anyone to get into the garden, but
the window was entirely inaccessible, since there was no water-pipe or
anything which could help the most active man to climb it. More
puzzled than ever I retraced my steps to Kensington. I had not been in
my study five minutes when the maid entered to say that a person
desired to see me. To my astonishment it was none other than my
strange old book-collector, his sharp, wizened face peering out from a
frame of white hair, and his precious volumes, a dozen of them at least,
wedged under his right arm.
"You're surprised to see me, sir," said he, in a strange, croaking voice.
I acknowledged that I was.

"Well, I've a conscience, sir, and when I chanced to see you go into this
house, as I came hobbling after you, I thought to myself, I'll just step in
and see that kind gentleman, and tell him that if I was a bit gruff in my
manner there was not any harm meant, and that I am much obliged to
him for picking up my books."
"You make too much of a trifle," said I. "May I ask how you knew who
I was?"
"Well, sir, if it isn't too great a liberty, I am a neighbour of yours, for
you'll find my little bookshop at the corner of Church Street, and very
happy to see you, I am sure. Maybe you collect yourself, sir; here's
`British Birds,' and `Catullus,' and `The Holy War' -- a bargain every
one of them. With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that
second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"
I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again
Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I
rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and
then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time in
my life. Certainly a grey mist swirled before my eyes, and when it
cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of
brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in
his hand.
"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a
thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."
I gripped him by the arm.
"Holmes!" I cried. "Is it really you? Can it indeed be that you are alive?
Is it possible that you succeeded in climbing out of that awful abyss?"
"Wait a moment," said he. "Are you sure that you are really fit to
discuss things? I have given you a serious shock by my unnecessarily
dramatic reappearance."
"I am all right, but indeed, Holmes, I can hardly believe my eyes. Good
heavens, to think that you -- you of all men -- should be standing in my
study!" Again I gripped him by the sleeve and felt the thin, sinewy arm
beneath it. "Well, you're not a spirit, anyhow," said