
“From the point of view of the criminal expert, London has
become a singularly uninteresting city since the death of the late
lamented Professor Moriarty.”
You are leaning back in your chair, and are unfolding the morning
paper in a leisurely fashion, when our attention is arrested bya tremendous ring at the bell, followed immediately by a hollow
drumming sound, as if someone is beating on the outer doorwith his fist.
An instant later a wild-eyed and frantic young man bursts into the
room. He looks from one to the other of us, and under our gaze of
inquiry he becomes conscious that some apology was needed for
this unceremonious entry.
He is flaxen-haired and handsome in a washed-out negative
fashion, with frightened blue eyes and a clean-shaven face, with a
weak, sensitive mouth. His age may be about twenty-seven; his
dress and bearing that of a gentleman. From the pocket of his
light summer overcoat protrudes the bundle of endorsed papers
which proclaims his profession. And he has got some kind of
opaque layer on his right thumb.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he cries. “You mustn’t blameme. I am nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane.”
He does an announcement as if the name alone would explain
both his visit and its manner.