Investigations

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of Sherlock Holmes, came to me and said, “Mr. Holmes is dying, Mr. Watson.

For three days he has been sinking, and I doubt if he will last another day. He would not let me get a doctor. I told him I could not stand it anymore and would get a doctor.” He replied, “Let it be Watson then.” I was horrified for I had not heard about his illness before. I rushed for my hat and coat.

As we drove back, I asked her about the details. “There is little I can tell you, sir. He has been working on a case down at Rotherhithe, near the river, and has brought this illness back with him. He took to bed on Wednesday afternoon and has never moved since.

For three days neither food nor drink has passed his lips.” “Why did you not call a doctor?” I asked. “He wouldn’t have it, sir. I didn’t dare to disobey him.” He was indeed a sad sight. In the dim light of a foggy November day, the sick-room was a gloomy spot, but it was a.

How did Watson feel when he heard of Holmes' illness? b. Why didn’t the landlady call the doctor? the gaunt face staring from the bed that brought chill to my heart.

His eyes had the brightness of fever, his cheeks were flushed, and his hand twitched all the time. He lay listless. “My dear fellow!” I cried approaching him. “Stand back!

Stand right back!” he cried. “But why? I want to help you,” I said. “Certainly, Watson, but it is for your own sake.” “For my sake?” I was surprised.

“I know what is the matter with me. It is the disease from Sumatra. It is deadly and contagious , Watson – that’s it, by touch.”