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|The Adventure of the Dying Detective||Arthur Conan Doyle|
The Adventure of the Dying Detective
|Page 2 of 11||
"Well, Watson, we seem to have fallen upon evil days," said he in a feeble voice, but with something of his old carelessness of manner.
"My dear fellow!" I cried, approaching him.
"Stand back! Stand right back!" said he with the sharp imperiousness which I had associated only with moments of crisis. "If you approach me, Watson, I shall order you out of the house."
"Because it is my desire. Is that not enough?"
Yes, Mrs. Hudson was right. He was more masterful than ever. It was pitiful, however, to see his exhaustion.
"I only wished to help," I explained.
"Exactly! You will help best by doing what you are told."
He relaxed the austerity of his manner.
"You are not angry?" he asked, gasping for breath.
Poor devil, how could I be angry when I saw him lying in such a plight before me?
"It's for your own sake, Watson," he croaked.
"For MY sake?"
"I know what is the matter with me. It is a coolie disease from Sumatra--a thing that the Dutch know more about than we, though they have made little of it up to date. One thing only is certain. It is infallibly deadly, and it is horribly contagious."
He spoke now with a feverish energy, the long hands twitching and jerking as he motioned me away.
"Contagious by touch, Watson--that's it, by touch. Keep your distance and all is well."
"Good heavens, Holmes! Do you suppose that such a consideration weighs with me of an instant? It would not affect me in the case of a stranger. Do you imagine it would prevent me from doing my duty to so old a friend?"
Again I advanced, but he repulsed me with a look of furious anger.
"If you will stand there I will talk. If you do not you must leave the room."
I have so deep a respect for the extraordinary qualities of Holmes that I have always deferred to his wishes, even when I least understood them. But now all my professional instincts were aroused. Let him be my master elsewhere, I at least was his in a sick room.
"Holmes," said I, "you are not yourself. A sick man is but a child, and so I will treat you. Whether you like it or not, I will examine your symptoms and treat you for them."
He looked at me with venomous eyes.
"If I am to have a doctor whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have confidence," said he.
"Then you have none in me?"
"In your friendship, certainly. But facts are facts, Watson, and, after all, you are only a general practitioner with very limited experience and mediocre qualifications. It is painful to have to say these things, but you leave me no choice."
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|The Adventure of the Dying Detective
Arthur Conan Doyle
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