by his spring to the door. I had stood for some minutes looking
at the silent figure in the bed. His face was almost covered by
the clothes and he appeared to be asleep. Then, unable to settle
down to reading, I walked slowly round the room, examining the
pictures of celebrated criminals with which every wall was
adorned. Finally, in my aimless perambulation, I came to the
mantelpiece. A litter of pipes, tobacco-pouches, syringes,
penknives, revolver-cartridges, and other debris was scattered
over it. In the midst of these was a small black and white ivory
box with a sliding lid. It was a neat little thing, and I had
stretched out my hand to examine it more closely when

It was a dreadful cry that he gave--a yell which might have been
heard down the street. My skin went cold and my hair bristled at
that horrible scream. As I turned I caught a glimpse of a
convulsed face and frantic eyes. I stood paralyzed, with the
little box in my hand.

"Put it down! Down, this instant, Watson--this instant, I say!"
His head sank back upon the pillow and he gave a deep sigh of
relief as I replaced the box upon the mantelpiece. "I hate to
have my things touched, Watson. You know that I hate it. You
fidget me beyond endurance. You, a doctor--you are enough to
drive a patient into an asylum. Sit down, man, and let me have
my rest!"

The incident left a most unpleasant impression upon my mind. The
violent and causeless excitement, followed by this brutality of
speech, so far removed from his usual suavity, showed me how deep
was the disorganization of his mind. Of all ruins, that of a