Then, to my surprise, there came a
long silence, broken only by the heavy breathings and gaspings of
the sick man. I could imagine that our visitor was standing by
the bedside and looking down at the sufferer. At last that
strange hush was broken.
"Holmes!" he cried. "Holmes!" in the insistent tone of one who
awakens a sleeper. "Can't you hear me, Holmes?" There was a
rustling, as if he had shaken the sick man roughly by the
shoulder.
"Is that you, Mr. Smith?" Holmes whispered. "I hardly dared
hope that you would come."
The other laughed.
"I should imagine not," he said. "And yet, you see, I am here.
Coals of fire, Holmes--coals of fire!"
"It is very good of you--very noble of you. I appreciate your
special knowledge."
Our visitor sniggered.
"You do. You are, fortunately, the only man in London who does.
Do you know what is the matter with you?"
"The same," said Holmes.
"Ah! You recognize the symptoms?"
"Only too well."
"Well, I shouldn't be surprised, Holmes. I shouldn't be
surprised if it WERE the same. A bad lookout for you if it is.
Poor Victor was a dead man on the fourth day--a strong, hearty
young fellow.
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