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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
Capítulo 11, Página 1
"Holmes,"
I
said
one
morning
as
I
stood
by
our
window
looking
down
the
street,
"there's
a
madman
coming.
It's
sad
that
his
family
lets
him
go
out
alone."
Holmes
got
up
lazily
from
his
armchair
and
stood
with
his
hands
in
his
dressing-gown
pockets,
peering
over
my
shoulder.
It
was
a
bright,
crisp
February
morning,
and
the
snow
from
yesterday
still
lay
thick
on
the
ground,
shining
in
the
winter
sun.
The
snow
in
the
middle
of
Baker
Street
had
been
churned
into
a
brown,
crumbly
path
by
traffic,
but
on
the
sides
and
piled
edges
of
the
sidewalks,
it
remained
as
white
as
when
it
fell.
The
grey
pavement
had
been
cleaned
and
scraped
but
was
still
dangerously
slippery,
so
there
were
fewer
people
than
usual.
In
fact,
from
the
direction
of
the
Metropolitan
Station,
no
one
was
coming
except
the
gentleman
whose
strange
behavior
had
caught
my
eye.
He
was
about
fifty,
tall,
stout,
and
impressive,
with
a
strong,
well-defined
face
and
an
authoritative
presence.
He
wore
a
somber
yet
rich
outfit,
with
a
black
frock
coat,
shiny
hat,
neat
brown
gaiters,
and
well-cut
pearl-grey
trousers.
Yet,
his
actions
were
absurdly
at
odds
with
his
dignified
appearance,
for
he
was
running
hard,
with
little
jumps,
like
a
tired
man
not
used
to
exerting
himself.
As
he
ran,
he
jerked
his
hands
up
and
down,
waggled
his
head,
and
twisted
his
face
into
bizarre
expressions.
"What
could
be
wrong
with
him?"
I
asked.
"He's
looking
up
at
the
house
numbers."
"I
think
he's
coming
here,"
said
Holmes,
rubbing
his
hands.
"Here?"
"Yes,
I
believe
he
wants
to
consult
me
professionally.
I
think
I
recognize
the
symptoms.
Ha!
Didn't
I
tell
you?"
As
he
spoke,
the
man,
panting
and
blowing,
rushed
to
our
door
and
rang
the
bell
so
hard
that
the
whole
house
echoed
with
the
noise.
Moments
later,
he
was
in
our
room,
still
panting
and
gesturing,
but
with
such
a
look
of
grief
and
despair
in
his
eyes
that
our
smiles
turned
to
horror
and
pity.
For
a
while,
he
couldn't
speak,
swaying
and
pulling
at
his
hair
like
someone
pushed
to
the
edge
of
reason.
Then,
suddenly
jumping
up,
he
banged
his
head
against
the
wall
so
forcefully
that
we
both
rushed
to
him
and
pulled
him
back
to
the
center
of
the
room.
Sherlock
Holmes
pushed
him
into
the
easy
chair
and,
sitting
beside
him,
patted
his
hand
and
spoke
to
him
in
the
gentle,
soothing
tones
he
knew
so
well
how
to
use.
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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes — B2 Inglés | Cuentana