CHAPTER 1 The Science of
Deduction
Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel- piece
and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long,
white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his
left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the
sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable
puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down
the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined arm-chair with a long
sigh of satisfaction.
Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance,
but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day
to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled
nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to protest.
Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon
the subject, but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion
which made him the last man with whom one would care to take anything
approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly manner, and the
experience which I had had of his many extraordinary qualities, all made
me diffident and backward in crossing him.
Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken
with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme
deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no longer.
"Which is it to-day?" I asked,--"morphine or cocaine?"