Приключения Шерлока Холмса / The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

What could it be? I thought of the assistant’s interest in photography, and his trick of diving into the cellar. The cellar! I made inquiries about this mysterious assistant and found that he was a well-known criminal in London. He was doing something in the cellar—something which took many hours a day for months. What could it be? I could think of nothing else but that he was digging a tunnel to some other building.

“When we went to visit the scene of action I surprised you by striking on the ground with my stick.

I wanted to know whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn and dirty they were. They spoke of those hours of digging. I only wished to know what they were digging for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank next to our client’s house, and felt that I had solved my problem. ”

“And how could you tell that they would make their attempt tonight?” I asked.

“Well, when they closed their League offices that showed that they did not need Mr. Jabez Wilson’s absence any longer – in other words, that their tunnel was ready. It was important to use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the money might be taken away. It was Saturday, and it gave them two days for their escape. So I expected them to come tonight.”

“Your ideas are brilliant,” I exclaimed in admiration.

“These little problems help me to escape from boredom of life,” he answered.

The Man with the Twisted Lip

I

Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, Principal of the Theological College of St. George’s, was addicted to opium. He developed a habit, as I understand, when he was at college. He found, as so many people before him, that it is easier to start than to stop smoking it, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, and his friends and relatives felt horror and pity for him at the same time.

I can see him now, with yellow, pale face, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

One night my door bell rang, about the hour when a man yawns and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work [19 - needle-work – шитье, вышивание] down and made a disappointed face.

“A patient!” said she. “You’ll have to go out.