"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," he cried. "You mustn't blame me.
I am nearly mad. Mr. Holmes, I am the unhappy John Hector McFarlane."
He made the announcement as if the name alone would explain both
his visit and its manner; but I could see by my companion's
unresponsive face that it meant no more to him than to me.
"Have a cigarette, Mr. McFarlane," said he, pushing his case across.
"I am sure that with your symptoms my friend Dr. Watson here would
prescribe a sedative. The weather has been so very warm these
last few days. Now, if you feel a little more composed, I should
be glad if you would sit down in that chair and tell us very slowly
and quietly who you are and what it is that you want. You mentioned
your name as if I should recognise it, but I assure you that,
beyond the obvious facts that you are a bachelor, a solicitor,
a Freemason, and an asthmatic, I know nothing whatever about you."
Familiar as I was with my friend's methods, it was not difficult
for me to follow his deductions, and to observe the untidiness of
attire, the sheaf of legal papers, the watch-charm, and the breathing
which had prompted them.
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