As it burned it filled the air with a subtle
and aromatic odor.
"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and
smiling. "That is my name. You are Miss Morstan, of course.
And these gentlemen--"
"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson."
"A doctor, eh?" cried he, much excited. "Have you your
stethoscope? Might I ask you--would you have the kindness? I
have grave doubts as to my mitral valve, if you would be so very
good. The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your
opinion upon the mitral."
I listened to his heart, as requested, but was unable to find
anything amiss, save indeed that he was in an ecstasy of fear,
for he shivered from head to foot. "It appears to be normal," I
said. "You have no cause for uneasiness."
"You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Morstan," he remarked, airily.
"I am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that
valve. I am delighted to hear that they are unwarranted. Had
your father, Miss Morstan, refrained from throwing a strain upon
his heart, he might have been alive now."
I could have struck the man across the face, so hot was I at this
callous and off-hand reference to so delicate a matter.
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