With a shrill cry of anger a man rose from a reclining chair
beside the fire. I saw a great yellow face, coarse-grained and
greasy, with heavy, double-chin, and two sullen, menacing gray
eyes which glared at me from under tufted and sandy brows. A
high bald head had a small velvet smoking-cap poised coquettishly
upon one side of its pink curve. The skull was of enormous
capacity, and yet as I looked down I saw to my amazement that the
figure of the man was small and frail, twisted in the shoulders
and back like one who has suffered from rickets in his childhood.

"What's this?" he cried in a high, screaming voice. "What is the
meaning of this intrusion? Didn't I send you word that I would
see you to-morrow morning?"

"I am sorry," said I, "but the matter cannot be delayed. Mr.
Sherlock Holmes--"

The mention of my friend's name had an extraordinary effect upon
the little man. The look of anger passed in an instant from his
face. His features became tense and alert.

"Have you come from Holmes?" he asked.

"I have just left him."

"What about Holmes? How is he?"

"He is desperately ill. That is why I have come."