In choosing a few typical cases whi

In choosing a few typical cases which illustrate the remarkable mental
qualities of my friend, Sherlock Holmes, I have endeavoured, as far as
possible, to select those which presented the minimum of
sensationalism, while offering a fair field for his talents. It is,
however, unfortunately impossible entirely to separate the sensational
from the criminal, and a chronicler is left in the dilemma that he must
either sacrifice details which are essential to his statement and so
give a false impression of the problem, or he must use matter which
chance, and not choice, has provided him with. With this short preface
I shall turn to my notes of what proved to be a strange, though a
peculiarly terrible, chain of events.

It was a blazing hot day in August. Baker Street was like an oven, and
the glare of the sunlight upon the yellow brickwork of the house across
the road was painful to the eye. It was hard to believe that these
were the same walls which loomed so gloomily through the fogs of
winter. Our blinds were half-drawn, and Holmes lay curled upon the
sofa, reading and re-reading a letter which he had received by the
morning post. For myself, my term of service in India had trained me
to stand heat better than cold, and a thermometer at ninety was no
hardship. But the morning paper was uninteresting. Parliament had
risen. Everybody was out of town, and I yearned for the glades of the
New Forest or the shingle of Southsea. A depleted bank account had
caused me to postpone my holiday, and as to my companion, neither the
country nor the sea presented the slightest attraction to him. He
loved to lie in the very center of five millions of people, with his
filaments stretching out and running through them, responsive to every
little rumour or suspicion of unsolved crime. Appreciation of nature
found no place among his many gifts, and his only change was when he
turned his mind from the evil-doer of the town to track down his
brother of the country.

Finding that Holmes was too absorbed for conversation I had tossed side
the barren paper, and leaning back in my chair I fell into a brown
study. Suddenly my companion's voice broke in upon my thoughts:

"You are right, Watson," said he. "It does seem a most preposterous
way of settling a dispute."

"Most preposterous!" I exclaimed, and then suddenly realizing how he
had echoed the inmost thought of my soul, I sat up in my chair and
stared at him in blank amazement.

"What is this, Holmes?" I cried. "This is beyond anything which I
could have imagined."

He laughed heartily at my perplexity.

"You remember," said he, "that some little time ago when I read you the
passage in one of Poe's sketches in which a close reasoner follows the
unspoken thoughts of his companion, you were inclined to treat the
matter as a mere tour-de-force of the author. On my remarking that I
was constantly in the habit of doing the same thing you expressed
incredulity."

"Oh, no!"

"Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainly with your
eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paper and enter upon a
train of thought, I was very happy to have the opportunity of reading
it off, and eventually of breaking into it, as a proof that I had been
in rapport with you."

But I was still far from satisfied. "In the example which you read to
me," said I, "the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actions of the
man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbled over a heap of
stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I have been seated
quietly in my chair, and what clues can I have given you?"

"You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man as the
means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours are faithful
servants."

"Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts from my
features?"

"Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannot yourself
recall how your reverie commenced?"

"No, I cannot."

"Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, which was the
action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half a minute with a
vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselves upon your newly
framed picture of General Gordon, and I saw by the alteration in your
face that a train of thought had been started. But it did not lead
very far. Your eyes flashed across to the unframed portrait of Henry
Ward Beecher which stands upon the top of your books. Then you glanced
up at the wall, and of course your meaning was obvious. You were
thinking that if the portrait were framed it would just cover that bare
space and correspond with Gordon's picture there."

"You have followed me wonderfully!" I exclaimed.

"So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughts went
back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you were studying the
character in his features. Then your eyes ceased to pucker, but you
continued to look across, and your face was thoughtful. You were
recalling the incidents of Beecher's career. I was well aware that you
could not do this without thinking of the mission which he undertook on
behalf of the North at the time of the Civil War, for I remember your
expressing your passionate indignation at the way in which he was
received by the more turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly
about it that I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinking of
that also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander away from the
picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned to the Civil War,
and when I observed that your lips set, your eyes sparkled, and your
hands clenched I was positive that you were indeed thinking of the
gallantry which was shown by both sides in that desperate struggle. But
then, again, your face grew sadder, you shook your head. You were
dwelling upon the sadness and horror and useless waste of life. Your
hand stole towards your own old wound and a smile quivered on your
lips, which showed me that the ridiculous side of this method of
settling international questions had forced itself upon your mind. At
this point I agreed with you that it was preposterous and was glad to
find that all my deductions had been correct."

"Absolutely!" said I. "And now that you have explained it, I confess
that I am as amazed as before."

"It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I should not
have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown some incredulity
the other day. But I have in my hands here a little problem which may
prove to be more difficult of solution than my small essay in thought
reading. Have you observed in the paper a short paragraph referring to
the remarkable contents of a packet sent through the post to Miss
Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?"

"No, I saw nothing."

"Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me. Here
it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be good enough to
read it aloud."

I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and read the
paragraph indicated. It was headed, "A Gruesome Packet."

"Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has been made the
victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revolting practical
joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove to be attached to
the incident. At two o'clock yesterday afternoon a small packet,
wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by the postman. A cardboard box
was inside, which was filled with coarse salt. On emptying this, Miss
Cushing was horrified to find two human ears, apparently quite freshly
severed. The box had been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the
morning before. There is no indication as to the sender, and the
matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of
fifty, has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances or
correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive anything
through the post. Some years ago, however, when she resided at Penge,
she let apartments in her house to three young medical students, whom
she was obliged to get rid of on account of their noisy and irregular
habits. The police are of opinion that this outrage may have been
perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by these youths, who owed her a grudge
and who hoped to frighten her by sending her these relics of the
dissecting-rooms. Some probability is lent to the theory by the fact
that one of these students came from the north of Ireland, and, to the
best of Miss Cushing's belief, from Belfast. In the meantime, the
matter is being actively investigated, Mr. Lestrade, one of the very
smartest of our detective officers, being in charge of the case."

"So much for the Daily Chronicle," said Holmes as I finished reading.
"Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this morning, in
which he says:

"I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every hope
of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in getting
anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to the Belfast
post-office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon that
day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one, or of
remembering the sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew
tobacco and does not help us in any way. The medical student theory
still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a
few hours to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I shall
be either at the house or in the police-station all day.

"What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down
to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?"

"I was longing for something to do."

"You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to order a
cab. I'll be back in a moment when I have changed my dressing-gown and
filled my cigar-case."

A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat was far
less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent on a wire, so
that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret

Resultater (Dansk) 1:

I at vælge et par typiske sager, som illustrerer den bemærkelsesværdige psykiskekvaliteter af min ven, Sherlock Holmes, jeg har bestræbt mig på, for så vidt angårmuligt, at vælge dem, der præsenterede et minimum afsensationsjournalistik, mens der tilbyder en rimelig område for hans talenter. Det er,men desværre umuligt helt at adskille den sensationellefra kriminelle, og en kronikør er tilbage i det dilemma, at hanenten ofre detaljer, som er afgørende for hans redegørelse og sågive et falsk indtryk af problemet, eller han skal bruge sagen somchance, og ikke valg, har givet ham med. Med denne korte forordJeg skal henvende mig til mine noter af hvad viste sig for at være en mærkelig, men enejendommeligt forfærdeligt, kæde af begivenheder.Det var en brændende varm dag i August. Baker Street var som en ovn, ogblænding fra sollys ved den gule murværk af huset på tværs afvejen var smertefuldt for øjet. Det var svært at tro, at dissevar de samme mure, som ragede så mørkt gennem tåger afvinter. Vores blinds var halv-tegnet, og Holmes lå krøllet ved densofa, læse og genlæse et brev, som han havde modtaget af denmorgen indlæg. For mig selv, havde mit mandat service i Indien uddannet migat stå varmen bedre end kulde og et termometer på halvfems var ingenmodgang. Men Morgenavisen var uinteressant. Parlamentet havdesteget. Alle var ude af byen, og jeg længtes efter glades af denNew Forest eller rullesten af Southsea. En forarmet bankkonto havdefik mig til at udsætte min ferie, og min følgesvend, hverken denland eller havet præsenteret den mindste tiltrækning for ham. Hanelskede at ligge i det historiske centrum af fem millioner af mennesker, med hansfilamenter strækker ud og kører igennem dem, lydhør til hverlille rygte eller mistanke om uopklaret forbrydelse. Værdsættelse af naturenfandt ingen plads blandt hans mange gaver, og hans eneste ændring var, da hanvendte hans sind fra det onde-handlingsmenneske af byen til at opspore hansbror til landet.At finde at Holmes var alt for optaget til samtale havde jeg smidt sideden golde papir, og læner sig tilbage i min stol jeg faldt i en brunundersøgelse. Pludselig brød min følgesvend stemme på mine tanker:"Du har ret, Watson," sagde han. "Det synes en mest absurdmåde at bilægge en tvist.""Mest absurd!" Udbrød jeg, og så pludselig indser, hvordan hanhavde gentaget den inderste tænkte på min sjæl, jeg sad oppe i min stol ogstirrede på ham i tom forbløffelse."Hvad er det, Holmes?" Jeg græd. "Dette er ud over noget som jegkunne have forestillet sig."Han lo hjerteligt ad min rådvildhed."Du husker," sagde han, "at nogle lidt tid siden da jeg læste du denpassage i en af Poes skitser i som en tæt reasoner følger denuudtalte tanker af hans følgesvend, du var tilbøjelig til at behandle denoget som en simpel tour-de-force af forfatteren. På min bemærke at jegkonstant for vane at gøre de samme ting var du udtryktvantro.""Åh, ingen!""Måske ikke med tungen, min kære Watson, men helt sikkert med dinøjenbryn. Så da jeg så dig kaste ned din papir og komme ind på entræne troede, jeg var meget glad for at have mulighed for at læsedet ud, og i sidste ende at bryde ind i det, som et bevis på, at jeg havde væreti rapport med dig."Men jeg var stadig langt fra tilfreds. "I det eksempel, som du læser tilmig,"sagde jeg," reasoner trak hans konklusioner fra handlinger af denmand, som han observerede. Hvis jeg husker ret, snublede han over en bunkesten, kiggede op på stjernerne og så videre. Men jeg har siddetstille og roligt i min stol, og hvad spor kan jeg har givet dig?""Du gør dig selv en uretfærdighed. Funktionerne er givet til mennesket som denhvorledes han skal udtrykke sine følelser, og din er trofastetjenere.""Mener du at sige, at du læser mit tog af tanker fra minfunktioner?""Dine funktioner og især dine øjne. Måske du ikke dig selvhusker hvordan din reverie påbegyndt?""Nej, jeg ikke.""Så jeg vil fortælle dig. Efter at kaste ned din papir, som var denhandling, som henledte min opmærksomhed til dig, du sad i et halvt minut med enledig udtryk. Så dine øjne rettet sig efter din nyligtindrammet billede af General Gordon, og jeg så ved ændring i dinansigt, et tog af tanke havde været startet. Men det føre ikkemeget langt. Dine øjne glimtede på tværs med en urammet portræt af HenryWard Beecher som står på toppen af dine bøger. Så du kiggedeop var på væggen, og selvfølgelig din betydning indlysende. Du vartænker at hvis portrættet blev indrammet det ville bare dække det nøgneplads og svarer med Gordons billede der.""Du har fulgt mig vidunderligt!" Udbrød jeg."Så vidt jeg kunne næppe er kommet på afveje. Men nu dine tanker giktilbage til Beecher, og du kiggede hårdt på tværs, som hvis du var at studere dentegn i hans funktioner. Så dine øjne er ophørt med at rynke, men dufortsatte med at se på tværs af, og dit ansigt var tankevækkende. Du varminder om hændelser af Beechers karriere. Jeg var godt klar over at dukunne ikke gøre det uden at tænke på den mission, som han påtog sig påvegne af nord på tidspunktet for borgerkrig, for jeg husker dinat udtrykke din lidenskabelig harme over den måde, hvorpå han varmodtaget af den mere turbulente af vores folk. Du følte så stærktomkring kunne det at jeg vidste du ikke tænke på Beecher uden at tænke påder også. Da et øjeblik senere jeg så dine øjne vandre væk fra denbillede, jeg mistanke om, at dit sind nu havde henvendt sig til borgerkrig,og da jeg bemærkede at dine læber sat, dine øjne strålede, og dinhænder sammenbidte jeg var positivt, at du faktisk tænker på dentapperhed, som blev vist af begge parter i denne desperate kamp. Menderefter igen, dit ansigt voksede tristere, du rystede hovedet. Du varbolig på sorg og rædsel og ubrugeligt spild af liv. Dinhånd stjal mod din egen gamle sår og et smil sitrede på dinlæber, som viste mig, at den latterlige side af denne metode afbilæggelse af internationale spørgsmål havde tvunget sig selv på dit sind. Pådette punkt jeg aftalt med dig, at det var urimeligt og var glad for atfinde, at alle mine fradrag havde været korrekt.""Absolut!" sagde I. "og nu, du har forklaret det, må jeg indrømmeat jeg så overrasket som før.""Det var meget overfladisk, min kære Watson, jeg forsikre dig. Jeg skal ikkehar trængt det ved din opmærksomhed ikke havde du vist nogle vantroanden dag. Men jeg har i mine hænder her et lille problem, som kanvise sig for at være vanskeligere for løsning end min lille essay i tankelæsning. Du har bemærket i papiret et kort afsnit henviser tilde bemærkelsesværdige indholdet af en pakke, der sendes med posten til MissCushing, Cross Street, Croydon?""Nej, så jeg intet.""Ah! så må du have overset den. Bare smide det for mig. HerDet er under de finansielle kolonne. Måske ville du være gode nok til atlæse det højt."Jeg tog det papir, som han havde kastet tilbage til mig og læse denstk. angivet. Det var overskriften, "En grufuld Packet.""Miss Susan Cushing, bor på Cross Street, Croydon, har gjort detoffer for hvad skal betragtes som et ejendommeligt oprørende praktiskejoke medmindre nogle mere dyster betydning skulle vise sig at være knyttet tilhændelsen. På to o'clock i går eftermiddags en lille pakke,pakket ind i brunt papir, blev afleveret af postbudet. En papkassewas inside, which was filled with coarse salt. On emptying this, Miss
Cushing was horrified to find two human ears, apparently quite freshly
severed. The box had been sent by parcel post from Belfast upon the
morning before. There is no indication as to the sender, and the
matter is the more mysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of
fifty, has led a most retired life, and has so few acquaintances or
correspondents that it is a rare event for her to receive anything
through the post. Some years ago, however, when she resided at Penge,
she let apartments in her house to three young medical students, whom
she was obliged to get rid of on account of their noisy and irregular
habits. The police are of opinion that this outrage may have been
perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by these youths, who owed her a grudge
and who hoped to frighten her by sending her these relics of the
dissecting-rooms. Some probability is lent to the theory by the fact
that one of these students came from the north of Ireland, and, to the
best of Miss Cushing's belief, from Belfast. In the meantime, the
matter is being actively investigated, Mr. Lestrade, one of the very
smartest of our detective officers, being in charge of the case."

"So much for the Daily Chronicle," said Holmes as I finished reading.
"Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him this morning, in
which he says:

"I think that this case is very much in your line. We have every hope
of clearing the matter up, but we find a little difficulty in getting
anything to work upon. We have, of course, wired to the Belfast
post-office, but a large number of parcels were handed in upon that
day, and they have no means of identifying this particular one, or of
remembering the sender. The box is a half-pound box of honeydew
tobacco and does not help us in any way. The medical student theory
still appears to me to be the most feasible, but if you should have a
few hours to spare I should be very happy to see you out here. I shall
be either at the house or in the police-station all day.

"What say you, Watson? Can you rise superior to the heat and run down
to Croydon with me on the off chance of a case for your annals?"

"I was longing for something to do."

"You shall have it then. Ring for our boots and tell them to order a
cab. I'll be back in a moment when I have changed my dressing-gown and
filled my cigar-case."

A shower of rain fell while we were in the train, and the heat was far
less oppressive in Croydon than in town. Holmes had sent on a wire, so
that Lestrade, as wiry, as dapper, and as ferret