But I quickly sought to counteract any anxiety I might have aroused in my already nervous patient.
'Yet it can hardly have been a man,' I said. 'It was more likely a bird perching momentarily in the ivy.'
'No, no,' Mr Smith said, in sharp command. 'A face, A burglar. I always knew this house was unsafe. After him doctor, after him. Lay him by the heels. Catch him. Catch him.'
I thought it best at least to make pretence of obeying the peremptory order. There would be little hope of calming my patient unless I made an excursion into the garden.
I hurried out of the room and down the stairs, calling to the manservant, who, I had gathered, was the sole other occupant of the house. But he evidently must have been in the kitchens or elsewhere out of hearing since I had no reply. I ran straight out of the front door and looked about me. At once, down at the far side of the garden, I detected a movement behind a still leaf-clad beech hedge. I set out at a run.
Holmes had been right, I thought, as swiftly and silently I crossed a large, damp-sodden lawn. My patient must be a man of mystery if he was being spied upon by daylight in this daring fashion. His cries of alarm over a burglary must, then, be false. No ordinary burglar, surely, would seek to enter a house by broad daylight.
My quarry had by now gone slinking along the far side of the beech hedge to a point where I lost sight of him behind a dense rhododendron shrubbery. But I was running on a course to cut him off, and I made no doubt that before long I would have the rogue by the collar.
Indeed, as soon as I had rounded the dense clump of rhododendrons, I saw a small wicket gate in the hedge ahead with the figure of the man who had been spying on my patient only just beyond. He appeared from his garb to be a gypsy. In a moment I was through the gate, and in another moment I had him by the arm.
'Now, you villain,' I cried. 'We shall have the truth of it.'
But even before the man had had time to turn in my grasp I heard from behind me the sound of sudden, wild, grim, evil laughter. I looked back. Peering at the two of us from the shelter of the rhododendrons was that same brown, wrinkled face I had glimpsed looking in at my patient's window. I loosened my grip on the gipsy, swung about and once more set out in pursuit.
This time I did not have so far to go. No sooner had I reached the other side of the shrubbery than I came face to face with my man. But he was my man no longer. He wore the same nondescript clothes that I had caught sight of among the brittle rhododendron leaves and his face was still brown-coloured. But that look of hectic evil in it had vanished clear away and in its place were the familiar features of my friend, Sherlock Holmes.
'I am sorry, Watson, to have put you to the trouble of two chases in one afternoon,' he said. 'But I had to draw you away from that fellow before revealing myself.'
'Holmes,' I cried. 'Then it was you at the window up there?'
'It was, doctor. I knew that it was imperative that I myself should take a good look at this mysterious patient of yours, and so I took the liberty of following you, knowing that this was your
day for visiting the case. But you were a little too quick for me in the end, my dear fellow, and I had to beat a more hurried retreat than I altogether cared to.'
'Yes, but all the same, Holmes,' I said. 'You cannot have had any good reason to suppose that it was necessary to spy upon my patient in that manner.'
'No good reason, doctor? Why, I should have thought the third finger of his right hand was reason enough, were there no other.'
'The third finger of his right hand?'
'Why, yes, my dear fellow. Surely you are not going to tell me that you noticed nothing about that? Come, I was at that window for little more than three or four minutes and I had grasped its significance long before you turned and saw me.'
'Now that I think about it,' I replied, 'my patient does wear a finger-stall on the third finger of his right hand. Some trifling injury, I suppose. It certainly could in no way contribute to his condition.'
'I never suggested that it did, doctor. I am sure you know your business better than that. Trust me, then, to know mine.'
'But does his concealing that finger have some significance?' I asked.
'Of course it does. Tell me, what does a man customarily wear upon his third finger?'
'A ring, I suppose. But that would not be upon the right hand, surely?'
'Yes, Watson, a ring. You have arrived at the point with your customary perspicacity. But why should a man wish to conceal a particular ring? Tell me that.'
'Holmes, I cannot. I simply cannot.'
'Because the ring has a particular meaning. And who is it who would wear a ring of that nature? Why, a monarch, of course. I tell you that man in bed there is a king, and he is hiding for some good reason. There can scarcely be any doubt about that.'
To my mind, there was at least room for a measure of disagreement with this conclusion. Smith was perhaps a name that anyone wishing to live anonymously might take, but certainly my patient had shown not the least trace of a foreign accent, as he was surely likely to do if he were the ruler of one of the lesser European states whose appearance, especially since he wore a full beard, might be unknown to me. Yet he did have a manservant of European origin, though here again this was not an altogether uncommon circumstance for a single English gentleman who might be something of a traveller. I would have liked to put all these doubts and queries to my friend, but from the moment that he had told me what he had deduced from my patient's concealed finger he lapsed into one of those moods of silence well familiar to me, and for the whole of our journey back to London he uttered scarcely a word, little more than to say to me at the station in Hertfordshire that he had a number of telegrams which he needed urgently to despatch.
I was curious enough, however, to find an opportunity of visiting Baker Street again next day. But, though I found Holmes fully dressed and a great deal more alert than on my last visit, I was unable to obtain from him any hint about the direction of his inquiries. All he would do was to talk, with that vivacity of spirit which he could display whenever the mood took him, about a bewildering variety of subjects, the paintings of the Belgian artist, Ensor, the amorous adventures of Madame Sand, the activities of the Russian nihilists, the gravity of the political situation in Illyria. None was a matter on which I felt myself particularly informed, yet on each Holmes, it seemed, had a fund of knowledge. At length I went back to my medical round not one whit better able to decide whether my Hertfordshire patient was no more than the nervous Englishman, Mr Smith, whom he seemed to be, or in truth some foreign potentate sheltering under that pseudonym in the safety of the Queen's peace.
The following morning, however, I received a telegram from Holmes requesting me to meet him at his bank in Oxford Street at noon 'in re the hidden finger.' I was, you can be sure, at the appointed place at the appointed hour, and indeed a good few minutes beforehand.
Holmes arrived exactly to time.
'Now, my good fellow,' he said, 'if you will do me the kindness of walking a few yards along the street with me, I think I can promise you a sight that will answer a good many of the questions which I have no doubt have been buzzing in your head these past few days.'
In silence we made our way together, along the busy street. I could not refrain from glancing to left and right at the passers-
by, at the cabs, carriages and vans in the roadway and at the glittering shopfronts in an endeavour to see what it was that Holmes wished to show me. But my efforts were in vain. Nothing that I saw roused the least spark in my mind.
Then abruptly Holmes grasped my arm. I came to a halt. 'Well?' my companion demanded.
'My dear fellow, I am not at all clear what it is to which you are directing my attention.'
Holmes gave a sigh of frank exasperation.
'The window, Watson. The shop window directly before you.' I looked at the window. It was that of a photographer's establishment, the whole crowded with numerous likenesses of persons both known and unknown.
'Well?' Holmes demanded yet more impatiently.
'It is one of these photographs you wish me to see?' I asked. 'It is, Watson, it is.'
I looked at them again, actors and actresses, the beauties of the day, well-known political figures.
'No,' I said, 'I cannot see any particular reason for singling out one of these pictures above any of the others. Is that what you wish me to do?'
'Watson, look. In the second row, the third from the left.' 'The Count Palatine of Illyria,' I read on the card
