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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes
The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet
Capítulo 11, Página 1
“Holmes,”
said
I
as
I
stood
one
morning
in
our
bow-window
looking
down
the
street,
“here
is
a
madman
coming
along.
It
seems
rather
sad
that
his
relatives
should
allow
him
to
come
out
alone.”
My
friend
rose
lazily
from
his
armchair
and
stood
with
his
hands
in
the
pockets
of
his
dressing-gown,
looking
over
my
shoulder.
It
was
a
bright,
crisp
February
morning,
and
the
snow
of
the
day
before
still
lay
deep
upon
the
ground,
shimmering
brightly
in
the
wintry
sun.
Down
the
centre
of
Baker
Street
it
had
been
ploughed
into
a
brown
crumbly
band
by
the
traffic,
but
at
either
side
and
on
the
heaped-up
edges
of
the
footpaths
it
still
lay
as
white
as
when
it
fell.
The
grey
pavement
had
been
cleaned
and
scraped,
but
was
still
dangerously
slippery,
so
that
there
were
fewer
passengers
than
usual.
Indeed,
from
the
direction
of
the
Metropolitan
Station
no
one
was
coming
save
the
single
gentleman
whose
eccentric
conduct
had
drawn
my
attention.
He
was
a
man
of
about
fifty,
tall,
portly,
and
imposing,
with
a
massive,
strongly
marked
face
and
a
commanding
figure.
He
was
dressed
in
a
sombre
yet
rich
style,
in
black
frock-coat,
shining
hat,
neat
brown
gaiters,
and
well-cut
pearl-grey
trousers.
Yet
his
actions
were
in
absurd
contrast
to
the
dignity
of
his
dress
and
features,
for
he
was
running
hard,
with
occasional
little
springs,
such
as
a
weary
man
gives
who
is
little
accustomed
to
set
any
tax
upon
his
legs.
As
he
ran
he
jerked
his
hands
up
and
down,
waggled
his
head,
and
writhed
his
face
into
the
most
extraordinary
contortions.
“What
on
earth
can
be
the
matter
with
him?”
I
asked.
“He
is
looking
up
at
the
numbers
of
the
houses.”
“I
believe
that
he
is
coming
here,”
said
Holmes,
rubbing
his
hands.
“Here?”
“Yes;
I
rather
think
he
is
coming
to
consult
me
professionally.
I
think
that
I
recognise
the
symptoms.
Ha!
did
I
not
tell
you?”
As
he
spoke,
the
man,
puffing
and
blowing,
rushed
at
our
door
and
pulled
at
our
bell
until
the
whole
house
resounded
with
the
clanging.
A
few
moments
later
he
was
in
our
room,
still
puffing,
still
gesticulating,
but
with
so
fixed
a
look
of
grief
and
despair
in
his
eyes
that
our
smiles
were
turned
in
an
instant
to
horror
and
pity.
For
a
while
he
could
not
get
his
words
out,
but
swayed
his
body
and
plucked
at
his
hair
like
one
who
has
been
driven
to
the
extreme
limits
of
his
reason.
Then,
suddenly
springing
to
his
feet,
he
beat
his
head
against
the
wall
with
such
force
that
we
both
rushed
upon
him
and
tore
him
away
to
the
centre
of
the
room.
Sherlock
Holmes
pushed
him
down
into
the
easy-chair
and,
sitting
beside
him,
patted
his
hand
and
chatted
with
him
in
the
easy,
soothing
tones
which
he
knew
so
well
how
to
employ.
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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes — C1 Inglés | Cuentana