"Doyle, Arthur Conan - The Adventure Of The Dying Detective" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doyle Arthur Conan)

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 you not call in a doctor?"

"He wouldn't have it, sir. You know how masterful he is. I
didn't dare to disobey him. But he's not long for this world, as
you'll see for yourself the moment that you set eyes on him."

He was indeed a deplorable spectacle. In the dim light of a
foggy November day the sick room was a gloomy spot, but it was
that gaunt, wasted face staring at me from the bed which sent a
chill to my heart. His eyes had the brightness of fever, there
was a hectic flush upon either cheek, and dark crusts clung to
his lips; the thin hands upon the coverlet twitched incessantly,
his voice was croaking and spasmodic. He lay listlessly as I
entered the room, but the sight of me brought a gleam of