Chapter IV The Story of the Bald-Headed Man

WefollowedtheIndiandownasordidandcommonpassage,ill-litandworsefurnished,untilhecametoadoorupontheright,whichhethrewopen.Ablazeofyellowlightstreamedoutuponus,andinthecentreoftheglaretherestoodasmallmanwithaveryhighhead,abristleofredhairallroundthefringeofit,andabald,shiningscalpwhichshotoutfromamongitlikeamountain-peakfromfir-trees.Hewrithedhishandstogetherashestood,andhisfeatureswereinaperpetualjerk,nowsmiling,nowscowling,butneverforaninstantinrepose.Naturehadgivenhimapendulouslip,andatoovisiblelineofyellowandirregularteeth,whichhestrovefeeblytoconcealbyconstantlypassinghishandoverthelowerpartofhisface.Inspiteofhisobtrusivebaldness,hegavetheimpressionofyouth.Inpointoffacthehadjustturnedhisthirtiethyear. “Yourservant,MissMorstan,”hekeptrepeating,inathin,highvoice.“Yourservant,gentlemen.Praystepintomylittlesanctum.Asmallplace,miss,butfurnishedtomyownliking.AnoasisofartinthehowlingdesertofSouthLondon.” Wewereallastonishedbytheappearanceoftheapartmentintowhichheinvitedus.Inthatsorryhouseitlookedasoutofplaceasadiamondofthefirstwaterinasettingofbrass.Therichestandglossiestofcurtainsandtapestriesdrapedthewalls,loopedbackhereandtheretoexposesomerichly-mountedpaintingorOrientalvase.Thecarpetwasofamber-and-black,sosoftandsothickthatthefootsankpleasantlyintoit,asintoabedofmoss.Twogreattiger-skinsthrownathwartitincreasedthesuggestionofEasternluxury,asdidahugehookahwhichstooduponamatinthecorner.Alampinthefashionofasilverdovewashungfromanalmostinvisiblegoldenwireinthecentreoftheroom.Asitburneditfilledtheairwithasubtleandaromaticodour. “Mr.ThaddeusSholto,”saidthelittleman,stilljerkingandsmiling.“Thatismyname.YouareMissMorstan,ofcourse.Andthesegentlemen—” “ThisisMr.SherlockHolmes,andthisisDr.Watson.” “Adoctor,eh?”criedhe,muchexcited.“Haveyouyourstethoscope?MightIaskyou—wouldyouhavethekindness?Ihavegravedoubtsastomymitralvalve,ifyouwouldbesoverygood.TheaorticImayrelyupon,butIshouldvalueyouropinionuponthemitral.” Ilistenedtohisheart,asrequested,butwasunabletofindanythingamiss,saveindeedthathewasinanecstasyoffear,forheshiveredfromheadtofoot.“Itappearstobenormal,”Isaid.“Youhavenocauseforuneasiness.” “Youwillexcusemyanxiety,MissMorstan,”heremarked,airily.“Iamagreatsufferer,andIhavelonghadsuspicionsastothatvalve.Iamdelightedtohearthattheyareunwarranted.Hadyourfather,MissMorstan,refrainedfromthrowingastrainuponhisheart,hemighthavebeenalivenow.” Icouldhavestruckthemanacrosstheface,sohotwasIatthiscallousandoff-handreferencetosodelicateamatter.MissMorstansatdown,andherfacegrewwhitetothelips.“Iknewinmyheartthathewasdead,”saidshe. “Icangiveyoueveryinformation,”saidhe,“and,whatismore,IcandoyoujusticeandIwill,too,whateverBrotherBartholomewmaysay.Iamsogladtohaveyourfriendshere,notonlyasanescorttoyou,butalsoaswitnessestowhatIamabouttodoandsay.ThethreeofuscanshowaboldfronttoBrotherBartholomew.Butletushavenooutsiders,—nopoliceorofficials.Wecansettleeverythingsatisfactorilyamongourselves,withoutanyinterference.NothingwouldannoyBrotherBartholomewmorethananypublicity.”Hesatdownuponalowsetteeandblinkedatusinquiringlywithhisweak,wateryblueeyes. “Formypart,”saidHolmes,“whateveryoumaychoosetosaywillgonofurther.” Inoddedtoshowmyagreement. “Thatiswell!Thatiswell!”saidhe.“MayIofferyouaglassofChianti,MissMorstan?OrofTokay?Ikeepnootherwines.ShallIopenaflask?No?Well,then,Itrustthatyouhavenoobjectiontotobacco-smoke,tothemildbalsamicodouroftheEas