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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes
The Five Orange Pips
Capítulo 5, Página 1
When
I
glance
over
my
notes
and
records
of
the
Sherlock
Holmes
cases
between
the
years
’82
and
’90,
I
am
faced
by
so
many
which
present
strange
and
interesting
features
that
it
is
no
easy
matter
to
know
which
to
choose
and
which
to
leave.
Some,
however,
have
already
gained
publicity
through
the
papers,
and
others
have
not
offered
a
field
for
those
peculiar
qualities
which
my
friend
possessed
in
so
high
a
degree,
and
which
it
is
the
object
of
these
papers
to
illustrate.
Some,
too,
have
baffled
his
analytical
skill,
and
would
be,
as
narratives,
beginnings
without
an
ending,
while
others
have
been
but
partially
cleared
up,
and
have
their
explanations
founded
rather
upon
conjecture
and
surmise
than
on
that
absolute
logical
proof
which
was
so
dear
to
him.
There
is,
however,
one
of
these
last
which
was
so
remarkable
in
its
details
and
so
startling
in
its
results
that
I
am
tempted
to
give
some
account
of
it
in
spite
of
the
fact
that
there
are
points
in
connection
with
it
which
never
have
been,
and
probably
never
will
be,
entirely
cleared
up.
The
year
’87
furnished
us
with
a
long
series
of
cases
of
greater
or
less
interest,
of
which
I
retain
the
records.
Among
my
headings
under
this
one
twelve
months
I
find
an
account
of
the
adventure
of
the
Paradol
Chamber,
of
the
Amateur
Mendicant
Society,
who
held
a
luxurious
club
in
the
lower
vault
of
a
furniture
warehouse,
of
the
facts
connected
with
the
loss
of
the
British
barque
Sophy
Anderson,
of
the
singular
adventures
of
the
Grice
Patersons
in
the
island
of
Uffa,
and
finally
of
the
Camberwell
poisoning
case.
In
the
latter,
as
may
be
remembered,
Sherlock
Holmes
was
able,
by
winding
up
the
dead
man’s
watch,
to
prove
that
it
had
been
wound
up
two
hours
before,
and
that
therefore
the
deceased
had
gone
to
bed
within
that
time—a
deduction
which
was
of
the
greatest
importance
in
clearing
up
the
case.
All
these
I
may
sketch
out
at
some
future
date,
but
none
of
them
present
such
singular
features
as
the
strange
train
of
circumstances
which
I
have
now
taken
up
my
pen
to
describe.
It
was
in
the
latter
days
of
September,
and
the
equinoctial
gales
had
set
in
with
exceptional
violence.
All
day
the
wind
had
screamed
and
the
rain
had
beaten
against
the
windows,
so
that
even
here
in
the
heart
of
great,
hand-made
London
we
were
forced
to
raise
our
minds
for
the
instant
from
the
routine
of
life
and
to
recognise
the
presence
of
those
great
elemental
forces
which
shriek
at
mankind
through
the
bars
of
his
civilisation,
like
untamed
beasts
in
a
cage.
As
evening
drew
in,
the
storm
grew
higher
and
louder,
and
the
wind
cried
and
sobbed
like
a
child
in
the
chimney.
Sherlock
Holmes
sat
moodily
at
one
side
of
the
fireplace
cross-indexing
his
records
of
crime,
while
I
at
the
other
was
deep
in
one
of
Clark
Russell’s
fine
sea-stories
until
the
howl
of
the
gale
from
without
seemed
to
blend
with
the
text,
and
the
splash
of
the
rain
to
lengthen
out
into
the
long
swash
of
the
sea
waves.
My
wife
was
on
a
visit
to
her
mother’s,
and
for
a
few
days
I
was
a
dweller
once
more
in
my
old
quarters
at
Baker
Street.
“Why,”
said
I,
glancing
up
at
my
companion,
“that
was
surely
the
bell.
Who
could
come
to-night?
Some
friend
of
yours,
perhaps?”
“Except
yourself
I
have
none,”
he
answered.
“I
do
not
encourage
visitors.”
“A
client,
then?”
“If
so,
it
is
a
serious
case.
Nothing
less
would
bring
a
man
out
on
such
a
day
and
at
such
an
hour.
But
I
take
it
that
it
is
more
likely
to
be
some
crony
of
the
landlady’s.”
Sherlock
Holmes
was
wrong
in
his
conjecture,
however,
for
there
came
a
step
in
the
passage
and
a
tapping
at
the
door.
He
stretched
out
his
long
arm
to
turn
the
lamp
away
from
himself
and
towards
the
vacant
chair
upon
which
a
newcomer
must
sit.
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Las aventuras de Sherlock Holmes — C1 Inglés | Cuentana