The Adventure of the Dying Detective | Page 3

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This etext was prepared by David Brannan of Woodbridge, Virginia.

The Adventure of the Dying Detective
By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, was a long- suffering woman. Not only
was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by throngs of singular and often undesirable
characters but her remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life
which must have sorely tried her patience. His incredible untidiness, his addiction to
music at strange hours, his occasional revolver practice within doors, his weird and often
malodorous scientific experiments, and the atmosphere of violence and danger which
hung around him made him the very worst tenant in London. On the other hand, his
payments were princely. I have no doubt that the house might have been purchased at the
price which Holmes paid for his rooms during the years that I was with him.
The landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and never dared to interfere with him,
however outrageous his proceedings might seem. She was fond of him, too, for he had a
remarkable gentleness and courtesy in his dealings with women. He disliked and
distrusted the sex, but he was always a chivalrous opponent. Knowing how genuine was
her regard for him, I listened earnestly to her story when she came to my rooms in the
second year of my married life and told me of the sad condition to which my poor friend
was reduced.
"He's dying, Dr. Watson," said she. "For three days he has been sinking, and I doubt if he
will last the day. He would not let me get a doctor. This morning when I saw his bones
sticking out of his face and his great bright eyes looking at me I could stand no more of it.
'With your leave or without it, Mr. Holmes, I am going for a doctor this very hour,' said I.
'Let it be Watson, then,' said he. I wouldn't waste an hour in coming to him, sir, or you
may not see him alive."
I was horrified for I had heard nothing of his illness. I need not say that I rushed for my
coat and my hat. As we drove back I asked for the details.
"There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working at a case down at Rotherhithe, in
an alley near the river, and he has brought this illness back with him. He took to his bed
on Wednesday afternoon and has never moved since. For these three days neither food
nor drink has passed his lips."

"Good God! Why did