However, he soon told me himself.
As I remember, it was on the 4th of March.
I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast.
I picked up a magazine from the table and attempted to pass the time with it, while my companion ate silently.
One of the articles had a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began to run my eye over it.
Its somewhat ambitious title was “The Book of Life,”
and it attempted to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurate and careful examination of all that came in his way.
The reasoning was close and intense, but the conclusions appeared to me to be far-fetched and exaggerated.
The writer claimed by a temporary expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, to find out a man’s inner thoughts.
According to him, it was impossible to fool a man who has been trained in such observation and analysis.
His conclusions were very definite.
To the untrained, his results would appear very surprising.
“From a drop of water,” said the writer, “a logician could gather the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other.
So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown a single link of it.
By a man’s finger nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his shoes, by his clothes, by his expression—by each of these things a man’s work is plainly revealed.”
“What nonsense!” I cried, throwing the magazine down on the table, “I never read such rubbish in my life.”
“What is it?” asked Sherlock Holmes.
“This article,” I said, pointing at it with my egg spoon as I sat down to my breakfast.
“I see that you have read it, since you have marked it.
I don’t deny that it is cleverly written. It bothers me though. It is not practical.
I should like to see him sit down in a third class carriage on the Underground, and figure out the profession of all the travelers.
I would lay a thousand to one against him.”
“You would lose your money,” Sherlock Holmes remarked calmly.
“As for the article, I wrote it myself.”
“You!” “Yes, I have a natural talent both for observation and for deduction.
The theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to you to be so absurd, are extremely practical—
so practical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese.”
“And how?” I asked.
“Well, I have a trade of my own.
I suppose I am the only one in the world.
I’m a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is.
Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of private ones.
When these men are at fault they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent.
They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able to give them the right idea, with the help of my knowledge of the history of crime.
Lestrade is a well-known detective.
He got himself into a mess recently over a case. That’s what brought him here.”
“But do you mean to say,” I said, “that without leaving your room you can undo some knots which other men cannot figure out,
although they have seen every detail for themselves?”
“Quite so. I have a kind of instinct about those things.
Sometimes a case turns up which is a little more complex.
Then I have to move about and see things with my own eyes.
You see I have a lot of special knowledge which I apply to the problem, and which aids matters wonderfully.
Those rules of deduction laid down in that article, which stirred your contempt, are precious to me in practical work.
To me, observation is second nature.
On our first meeting, you appeared to be surprised when I told you that you had come from Afghanistan.”
“You were told, no doubt.”
“Nothing of the sort. I knew you came from Afghanistan.
From long habit the sequence of thoughts ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being aware of the intermediate steps.
There were such steps, however.
My thoughts went like this, ‘Here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with the air of a military man.
Clearly an army doctor, then.
He has just come from the tropics, for his face is dark, and that is not the natural color of his skin, for his wrists are fair.
He has experienced suffering and sickness, as his worn face says clearly.
His left arm has been wounded.
He holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner.
Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much suffering and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan.’
The whole train of thought did not take a second.
I then remarked that you came from Afghanistan, and you were shocked.”
“It is simple enough when you explain it,” I said, smiling.
“No man lives, or has ever lived, who has brought the same amount of study and of natural talent to the detection of crime as I have done.
And what is the result? There is no crime to detect, or, at most, some stupid crimes with a motive so obvious that even a Scotland Yard official can see through it.”
I was annoyed at his arrogant style of conversation.
I thought it best to change the topic.
“I wonder what that fellow is looking for.”I asked, pointing to a plainly-dressed man who was walking slowly down the other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers.
He had a large blue envelope in his hand, and was evidently carrying a message to someone.
“You mean the retired sergeant of Marines,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“Nonsense!” I thought to myself.
“He knows that I cannot verify his guess.”
The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were watching caught sight of(看見) the number on our door, and ran rapidly across the road.
We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps climbing the stair.
“For Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, stepping into the room and handing my friend the letter.
Here was an opportunity of taking the pride out of him.
He little thought of this when he made that random guess.
“May I ask, my man,” I said, “what your job may be?”
“Messenger, sir,” he said. “My uniform is away to be mended.”
“And you were?” I asked.
“A sergeant, sir, Royal Marine Light Infantry, sir. No answer? Right, sir.”
He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in a salute, and was gone.
