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Read book online ยซHis Last Bow by Arthur Conan Doyle (well read books .TXT) ๐Ÿ“•ยป.   Author   -   Arthur Conan Doyle



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was dispatched about one. But no one can glance at your toilet and attire without seeing that your disturbance dates from the moment of your waking.โ€

Our client smoothed down his unbrushed hair and felt his unshaven chin.

โ€œYou are right, Mr. Holmes. I never gave a thought to my toilet. I was only too glad to get out of such a house. But I have been running round making inquiries before I came to you. I went to the house agents, you know, and they said that Mr. Garciaโ€™s rent was paid up all right and that everything was in order at Wisteria Lodge.โ€

โ€œCome, come, sir,โ€ said Holmes, laughing. โ€œYou are like my friend, Dr. Watson, who has a bad habit of telling his stories wrong end foremost. Please arrange your thoughts and let me know, in their due sequence, exactly what those events are which have sent you out unbrushed and unkempt, with dress boots and waistcoat buttoned awry, in search of advice and assistance.โ€

Our client looked down with a rueful face at his own unconventional appearance.

โ€œIโ€™m sure it must look very bad, Mr. Holmes, and I am not aware that in my whole life such a thing has ever happened before. But I will tell you the whole queer business, and when I have done so you will admit, I am sure, that there has been enough to excuse me.โ€

But his narrative was nipped in the bud. There was a bustle outside, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door to usher in two robust and official-looking individuals, one of whom was well known to us as Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, an energetic, gallant, and, within his limitations, a capable officer. He shook hands with Holmes and introduced his comrade as Inspector Baynes, of the Surrey Constabulary.

โ€œWe are hunting together, Mr. Holmes, and our trail lay in this direction.โ€ He turned his bulldog eyes upon our visitor. โ€œAre you Mr. John Scott Eccles, of Popham House, Lee?โ€

โ€œI am.โ€

โ€œWe have been following you about all the morning.โ€

โ€œYou traced him through the telegram, no doubt,โ€ said Holmes.

โ€œExactly, Mr. Holmes. We picked up the scent at Charing Cross Post-Office and came on here.โ€

โ€œBut why do you follow me? What do you want?โ€

โ€œWe wish a statement, Mr. Scott Eccles, as to the events which led up to the death last night of Mr. Aloysius Garcia, of Wisteria Lodge, near Esher.โ€

Our client had sat up with staring eyes and every tinge of colour struck from his astonished face.

โ€œDead? Did you say he was dead?โ€

โ€œYes, sir, he is dead.โ€

โ€œBut how? An accident?โ€

โ€œMurder, if ever there was one upon earth.โ€

โ€œGood God! This is awful! You donโ€™t meanโ โ€”you donโ€™t mean that I am suspected?โ€

โ€œA letter of yours was found in the dead manโ€™s pocket, and we know by it that you had planned to pass last night at his house.โ€

โ€œSo I did.โ€

โ€œOh, you did, did you?โ€

Out came the official notebook.

โ€œWait a bit, Gregson,โ€ said Sherlock Holmes. โ€œAll you desire is a plain statement, is it not?โ€

โ€œAnd it is my duty to warn Mr. Scott Eccles that it may be used against him.โ€

โ€œMr. Eccles was going to tell us about it when you entered the room. I think, Watson, a brandy and soda would do him no harm. Now, sir, I suggest that you take no notice of this addition to your audience, and that you proceed with your narrative exactly as you would have done had you never been interrupted.โ€

Our visitor had gulped off the brandy and the colour had returned to his face. With a dubious glance at the inspectorโ€™s notebook, he plunged at once into his extraordinary statement.

โ€œI am a bachelor,โ€ said he, โ€œand being of a sociable turn I cultivate a large number of friends. Among these are the family of a retired brewer called Melville, living at Abermarle Mansion, Kensington. It was at his table that I met some weeks ago a young fellow named Garcia. He was, I understood, of Spanish descent and connected in some way with the embassy. He spoke perfect English, was pleasing in his manners, and as good-looking a man as ever I saw in my life.

โ€œIn some way we struck up quite a friendship, this young fellow and I. He seemed to take a fancy to me from the first, and within two days of our meeting he came to see me at Lee. One thing led to another, and it ended in his inviting me out to spend a few days at his house, Wisteria Lodge, between Esher and Oxshott. Yesterday evening I went to Esher to fulfil this engagement.

โ€œHe had described his household to me before I went there. He lived with a faithful servant, a countryman of his own, who looked after all his needs. This fellow could speak English and did his housekeeping for him. Then there was a wonderful cook, he said, a half-breed whom he had picked up in his travels, who could serve an excellent dinner. I remember that he remarked what a queer household it was to find in the heart of Surrey, and that I agreed with him, though it has proved a good deal queerer than I thought.

โ€œI drove to the placeโ โ€”about two miles on the south side of Esher. The house was a fair-sized one, standing back from the road, with a curving drive which was banked with high evergreen shrubs. It was an old, tumbledown building in a crazy state of disrepair. When the trap pulled up on the grass-grown drive in front of the blotched and weather-stained door, I had doubts as to my wisdom in visiting a man whom I knew so slightly. He opened the door himself, however, and greeted me with a great show of cordiality. I was handed over to the manservant, a melancholy, swarthy individual, who led the way, my bag in his hand, to my bedroom. The whole place was depressing. Our dinner was tรชte-ร -tรชte, and though my host did his best to be entertaining, his thoughts seemed to continually wander, and he talked so vaguely and wildly that I could

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