[adapted]

by
Arthur Conan Doyle

Chapter I.
The Science of Deduction

Sherlock Holmes took a small bottle from the mantel and a needle for an injection from its case. With calm hands he pushed the needle into his arm. Then he sat back in his chair and gave a long sigh of satisfaction.

I had watched this habit for many months. Three times a day Holmes used the drug. I did not like it. Each day I felt more worried. Many times I wanted to protest, but Holmes had a quiet and confident manner. It was difficult to argue with him. That afternoon I could not stay silent.

“Which is it today?” I asked. “Morphine or cocaine?”

“Cocaine,” he answered calmly. “A seven-percent solution. Would you like to try it?”

“No,” I said quickly. “My health is still weak after the Afghan war. I cannot risk it.”

Holmes smiled a little. “Perhaps you are right, Watson. It may harm the body. But it makes the mind very clear and active.”

“But you should think about the cost,” I said seriously. “You may damage your health. You have great abilities. Why risk losing them for a short feeling of pleasure?”

Holmes placed his fingers together and looked interested in the discussion.

“My mind hates boredom,” he said. “Give me problems. Give me puzzles. Give me difficult questions. Then I feel alive. Without work, life becomes dull. That is why I chose my profession. In fact, I created it.”

“What profession is that?” I asked.

“I am a consulting detective,” Holmes said. “The only one in the world. When detectives like Gregson or Lestrade cannot solve a case, they come to me. I study the facts and give my opinion. I do not want fame. The work itself is my reward.”

“You solved the Jefferson Hope case very well,” I said. “I even wrote a small book about it called A Study in Scarlet.”

Holmes shook his head. “I read it,” he said. “You added too much romance. Detecting should be treated like science. It should be calm and exact.”

His criticism annoyed me, but I said nothing. My leg, which was wounded in the war, began to ache.

After a short silence Holmes filled his pipe and lit it.

“My work now reaches other countries,” he said. “Last week a French detective named François Le Villard asked for my help. His case was about a will. I remembered two similar cases from the past and told him about them. With that information he found the answer. This morning he sent me a letter to thank me.”

Holmes handed me the letter. It was full of praise.

“He clearly admires you,” I said.

“He praises me too much,” Holmes replied. “He has two important qualities for a detective. He observes carefully and he reasons well. He only needs more knowledge.”

“You notice very small details,” I said.

“Small details are very important,” Holmes answered.

He leaned back and blew smoke slowly into the air.

“For example,” he continued, “observation tells me that you went to the Wigmore Street Post Office this morning. Reasoning tells me that you sent a telegram.”

“That is correct,” I said in surprise. “But how did you know?”

“It is simple,” Holmes replied. “I saw some red soil on your shoe. Near that post office the street is being repaired. The soil there has that color. Also, you did not write any letters this morning, because I sat opposite you the whole time. I see stamps and postcards on your desk. So the only reason to go to the post office was to send a telegram.”

I nodded. His explanation was very clear. “But let me test your method,” I said.

Holmes smiled. “Please do. It will keep me from taking more cocaine.”

I took a watch from my pocket and gave it to him. “This watch recently came to me,” I said. “Tell me about the man who owned it.”

Holmes examined the watch carefully. He looked at the outside, then opened the case and studied the inside with a magnifying glass. After a moment he closed it and returned it to me.

“There are few clues,” he said. “But I believe the watch belonged to your elder brother. He received it from your father.”

“That is correct,” I said.

Holmes continued calmly. “Your brother was careless. He once had good chances in life, but he wasted them. Sometimes he had money, and sometimes he was poor. In the end he drank too much and died.”

I stood up angrily. “This is unfair, Holmes!” I said. “You must have asked someone about my brother. You cannot learn all that from a watch.”

Holmes looked surprised. “My dear Watson,” he said kindly, “I did not even know you had a brother until you gave me the watch.”

“Then how did you know these things?”

“I did not guess,” Holmes said. “I observed and reasoned.” He pointed to the watch in my hand. “The case is scratched and damaged. A careful man would not treat a valuable watch like that. Inside the case I see several small numbers. These are marks from pawnbrokers. Your brother often pawned the watch when he needed money. But he also took it back many times, so sometimes he had money again. Finally, look at the scratches around the keyhole. A steady hand would not make those marks. They show that he often wound the watch while drunk.”

I sighed. “It is very clear now,” I said. “I am sorry that I doubted you.”

Holmes walked to the window and looked out at the foggy London street. “I have no cases now,” he said. “That is why I take cocaine. I need mental work. Without it, life feels empty.”

Just then there was a knock at the door. Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, entered with a card on a tray.

“A young lady is here to see you, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

Holmes read the card. “Miss Mary Morstan,” he said. “I do not remember that name. Please ask her to come in, Mrs. Hudson.”

Then he turned to me. “Stay here, Watson,” he said. “I would like you to hear this.”

Chapter II.
The Statement of the Case

Miss Mary Morstan entered the room with a calm step. She was a small blonde woman, neatly dressed, but her clothes were simple. They showed that she did not have much money. Her face was not very beautiful, but her expression was kind and gentle. Her blue eyes were warm and sincere. As she sat down, I saw that her hands trembled slightly. She was clearly very nervous.

“I came to see you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “because you once helped my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester. She spoke very highly of your skill and kindness.”

Holmes nodded. “Yes, I remember helping Mrs. Forrester,” he said. “Please tell us your problem.”

I began to stand up, thinking that the young lady might wish to speak privately. But she raised her hand to stop me. “If your friend would stay,” she said, “he may be able to help me.” I sat down again.

“My story is this,” she continued. “My father was an officer in an Indian army regiment. When I was a small child he sent me to England. My mother was dead, and I had no other family here. I lived in a boarding school in Edinburgh until I was seventeen.

“In the year 1878 my father came to England on leave. He sent me a telegram from London. In the message he told me he had arrived safely and asked me to meet him at the Langham Hotel.

“I went to London at once. At the hotel they told me that Captain Morstan had stayed there, but he went out the night before and had not returned. I waited the whole day, but there was no news. The police were informed, and we placed notices in the newspapers. But nothing was discovered. From that day to this, no one has heard from my father again.”

Holmes wrote notes in his small notebook. “When did this happen?” he asked.

“He disappeared on the third of December, 1878.”

“Did he leave any luggage?”