PART I.
7. CHAPTER VII. LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.
(continued)
I went downstairs and carried the dog upstair in my arms.
It's laboured breathing and glazing eye showed that it was
not far from its end. Indeed, its snow-white muzzle
proclaimed that it had already exceeded the usual term of
canine existence. I placed it upon a cushion on the rug.
"I will now cut one of these pills in two," said Holmes,
and drawing his penknife he suited the action to the word.
"One half we return into the box for future purposes.
The other half I will place in this wine glass, in which
is a teaspoonful of water. You perceive that our friend,
the Doctor, is right, and that it readily dissolves."
"This may be very interesting," said Lestrade, in the injured
tone of one who suspects that he is being laughed at,
"I cannot see, however, what it has to do with the death of
Mr. Joseph Stangerson."
"Patience, my friend, patience! You will find in time that
it has everything to do with it. I shall now add a little
milk to make the mixture palatable, and on presenting it to
the dog we find that he laps it up readily enough."
As he spoke he turned the contents of the wine glass into a
saucer and placed it in front of the terrier, who speedily
licked it dry. Sherlock Holmes' earnest demeanour had so far
convinced us that we all sat in silence, watching the animal
intently, and expecting some startling effect. None such
appeared, however. The dog continued to lie stretched upon
the cushion, breathing in a laboured way, but apparently
neither the better nor the worse for its draught.
Holmes had taken out his watch, and as minute followed minute
without result, an expression of the utmost chagrin and
disappointment appeared upon his features. He gnawed his lip,
drummed his fingers upon the table, and showed every
other symptom of acute impatience. So great was his emotion,
that I felt sincerely sorry for him, while the two detectives
smiled derisively, by no means displeased at this check which
he had met.
|