The Yellow Face
In publishing these short sketches based upon the numerouscases in which my companion’s singular gifts have made us thelisteners to, and eventually the actors in, some strange drama,is only natural that I should dwell rather upon his successesthan upon his failures. And this not so much for the sake of hisreputation—for, indeed, it was when he was at his wits’ end that hisenergy and his versatility were most admirable—but because where hefailed it happened too often that no one else succeeded, and that thetale was left forever without a conclusion. Now and again, however, itchanced that even when he erred, the truth was still discovered. Ihave noted of some half-dozen cases of the kind; the Adventure ofthe Musgrave Ritual and that which I am about to recount are thetwo which present the strongest features of interest.]
Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise forexercise’s sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort,and he was undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight thathave ever seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as awaste of energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when therewas some professional object to be served. Then he was absolutelyuntiring and indefatigable. That he should have kept himself intraining under such circumstances is remarkable, but his diet wasMemoirs of Sherlock Holmes 685
usually of the sparest, and his habits were simple to the verge ofausterity. Save for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no vices,and he only turned to the drug as a protest against the monotonyof existence when cases were scanty and the papers uninteresting.
One day in early spring he had so far relaxed as to go for a walkwith me in the Park, where the first faint shoots of green werebreaking out upon the elms, and the sticky spear-heads of thechestnuts were just beginning to burst into their five-fold leaves.
For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for the mostpart, as befits two men who know each other intimately. It wasnearly five before we were back in Baker Street once more.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said our page-boy, as he opened the door.
“There’s been a gentleman here asking for you, sir.”
Holmes glanced reproachfully at me. “So much for afternoonwalks!” said he. “Has this gentleman gone, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Didn’t you ask him in?”
“Yes, sir; he came in.”
“How long did he wait?”
“Half an hour, sir. He was a very restless gentleman, sir, a-walkin’
and a-stampin’ all the time he was here. I was waitin’ outside thedoor, sir, and I could hear him. At last he outs into the passage,and he cries, ‘Is that man never goin’ to come?’ Those were his verywords, sir. ‘You’ll only need to wait a little longer,’ says I. ‘Then I’llwait in the open air, for I feel half choked,’ says he. ‘I’ll be backbefore long.’ And with that he ups and he outs, and all I could saywouldn’t hold him back.”
“Well, well, you did your best,” said Holmes, as we walked intoour room. “It’s very annoying, though, Watson. I was badly in needof a case, and this looks, from the man’s impatience, as if it wereof importance. Hullo! That’s not your pipe on the table. He musthave left his behind him. A nice old brier with a good long stem ofwhat the tobacconists call amber. I wonder how many real ambermouthpieces there are in London? Some people think that a fly init is a sign. Well, he must have been disturbed in his mind to leavea pipe behind him which he evidently values highly.”
“How do you know that he values it highly?” I asked.
“Well, I should put the original cost of the pipe at seven andsixpence. Now it has, you see, been twice mended, once in thewooden stem and once in the amber. Each of these mends, done, asyou observe, with silver bands, must have cost more than the pipedid originally. The man must value the pipe highly when he prefersto patch it up rather than buy a new one with the same money.”
“Anything else?” I asked, for Holmes was turning the pipe aboutin his hand, and staring at it in his peculiar pensive way.
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He held it up and tapped on it with his long, thin forefinger, asprofessor might who was lecturing on a bone.
“Pipes are occasionally of extraordinary interest,” said he. “Nothinghas more individuality, save perhaps watches and bootlaces. Theindications here, however, are neither very marked nor veryimportant. The owner is obviously a muscular man, left-handed,with an excellent set of teeth, careless in his habits, and with noneed to practise economy.”
My friend threw out the information in a very offhand way, butsaw that he cocked his eye at me to see if I had followed hisreasoning.
“You think a man must be well-to-do if he smokes a sevenshillingpipe,” said I.
“This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce,” Holmesanswered, knocking a little out on his palm. “As he might get anexcellent smoke for half the price, he has no need to practiseeconomy.”
“And the other points?”
“He has been in the habit of lighting his pipe at lamps and gasjets.
You can see that it is quite charred all down one side. Ofcourse a match could not have done that. Why should a man holdmatch to the side of his pipe? But you cannot light it at a lampwithout getting the bowl charred. And it is all on the right sideof the pipe. From that I gather that he is a left-handed man. Youhold your own pipe to the lamp, and see how naturally you, beingright-handed, hold the left side to the flame. You might do it oncethe other way, but not as a constancy. This has always been heldso. Then he has bitten through his amber. It takes a muscular,energetic fellow, and one with a good set of teeth, to do that. ButI am not mistaken I hear him upon the stair, so we shall havesomething more interesting than his pipe to study.”
An instant later our door opened, and a tall young man enteredthe room. He was well but quietly dressed in a dark gray suit, andcarried a brown wideawake in his hand. I should have put him atabout thirty, though he was really some years older.