Знак четырех

           Mymindranuponourlatevisitor,—hersmiles,thedeeprichtonesofhervoice,thestrangemysterywhichoverhungherlife.Ifshewereseventeenatthetimeofherfather’sdisappearanceshemustbeseven-and-twentynow,—asweetage,whenyouthhaslostitsself-consciousnessandbecomealittlesoberedbyexperience.SoIsatandmused,untilsuchdangerousthoughtscameintomyheadthatIhurriedawaytomydeskandplungedfuriouslyintothelatesttreatiseuponpathology.WhatwasI,anarmysurgeonwithaweaklegandaweakerbanking-account,thatIshoulddaretothinkofsuchthings?Shewasaunit,afactor,—nothingmore.Ifmyfuturewereblack,itwasbettersurelytofaceitlikeamanthantoattempttobrightenitbymerewill-o’-the-wispsoftheimagination.