crowded into it. Every time that I closed my eyes I saw
before me the distorted baboon-like countenance of the
murdered man. So sinister was the impression which that face
had produced upon me that I found it difficult to feel
anything but gratitude for him who had removed its owner from
the world. If ever human features bespoke vice of the most
malignant type, they were certainly those of Enoch J. Drebber,
of Cleveland. Still I recognized that justice must be done,
and that the depravity of the victim was no condonment {11} in
the eyes of the law.

The more I thought of it the more extraordinary did my
companion's hypothesis, that the man had been poisoned,
appear. I remembered how he had sniffed his lips, and had no
doubt that he had detected something which had given rise to
the idea. Then, again, if not poison, what had caused the
man's death, since there was neither wound nor marks of
strangulation? But, on the other hand, whose blood was that
which lay so thickly upon the floor? There were no signs of
a struggle, nor had the victim any weapon with which he might
have wounded an antagonist. As long as all these questions
were unsolved, I felt that sleep would be no easy matter,
either for Holmes or myself. His quiet self-confident manner
convinced me that he had already formed a theory which
explained all the facts, though what it was I could not for
an instant conjecture.

He was very late in returning -- so late, that I knew
that the concert could not have detained him all the time.
Dinner was on the table before he appeared.