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"Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I

think that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?" As

he spoke, the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and

pulled at our bell until the whole house resounded with the

clanging.

A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still

gesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in

his eyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and

pity. For a while he could not get his words out, but swayed his

body and plucked at his hair like one who has been driven to the

extreme limits of his reason. Then, suddenly springing to his

feet, he beat his head against the wall with such force that we

both rushed upon him and tore him away to the centre of the room.

Sherlock Holmes pushed him down into the easy-chair and, sitting

beside him, patted his hand and chatted with him in the easy,

soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ.