Then Holmes hurried with a cushion for his head and I with
brandy for his lips. The heavy white face was seamed with lines
of trouble, the hanging pouches under the closed eyes were
leaden in colour, the loose mouth drooped dolorously at the corners,
the rolling chins were unshaven. Collar and shirt bore the grime
of a long journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from the
well-shaped head. It was a sorely-stricken man who lay before us.
"What is it, Watson?" asked Holmes.
"Absolute exhaustion -- possibly mere hunger and fatigue," said I,
with my finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of life
trickled thin and small.
"Return ticket from Mackleton, in the North of England," said Holmes,
drawing it from the watch-pocket. "It is not twelve o'clock yet.
He has certainly been an early starter."
The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of
vacant, grey eyes looked up at us. An instant later the man
had scrambled on to his feet, his face crimson with shame.
"Forgive this weakness, Mr. Holmes; I have been a little
overwrought. Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and
a biscuit I have no doubt that I should be better.
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