The Perils of Sherlock Holmes Read Online Free PDF

aroused me from the stupefaction of boredom. His hand closed firmly upon my near wrist. I noted then a youngish man approaching.
    He was in need of a haircut and wore a shabby overcoat, but his bearing betrayed breeding. His hair colouring and blue eyes, shot through at that early hour with the ensanguination of strong drink, matched the description Burton had given us of James Patterson, the disinherited son of one of the heroes of Roarke’s Drift.
    I grasped the handle of my pistol, but was prevented from drawing it out by a quick squeeze of Holmes’s hand. Thus we stood unmoving as Burton’s late assistant climbed the steps and entered the post office.
    Leaning close, Holmes whispered in my ear.
    “If he should emerge carrying a parcel, we shall follow him until we’re clear of these other fellows. He may have friends among them. Be prepared, upon my signal, to step in close and press your revolver against his ribs. Discreetly, I beseech you; a day at the Assizes to answer a charge of robbery by a passing patrolman may undo a lifetime of respectable behaviour.”
    An eternity seemed to pass before Patterson reappeared. In truth it was not quite five minutes. He sauntered down the steps, considerably lighter on his heels than he had seemed on the way up. Beneath his right arm, clutched as tightly as if it contained the treasure of the Tower, rode a brown paper–wrapped parcel no larger than an officer’s toilet kit.
    As directed, I fell in beside Holmes and we trailed the young man at a distance of fifty yards until we were well quit of the crowd outside the post office. Then we picked up our pace, and an instant before the sound of our approaching footsteps must alert Patterson to our presence, Holmes cried, “Now, Watson! Sharp!”
    I stepped in quickly, thrusting my weapon’s muzzle through the material of my coat pocket against Patterson’s side, just as he turned. He seemed to recognise the feel of the tempered steel, for he tensed. At that same instant, the detective circled round in front of him. His eyes were bright.
    “Your game is done, Patterson! My friend is no stranger to the hazardous life, and will not hesitate to fire if you offer him no choice. The parcel, if you please.” He held out a hand.
    The young man wet his lips noisily. “Is it a hold-up, then?” asked he, loudly.
    “Were I you, I would not seek to summon police help, however clumsily. It would be the word of a disgraced son against a knight of the realm.” Holmes’s tone was withering in its contempt.
    The tension went out of Patterson like wind from a torn sail. He surrendered the parcel.
    Instinctively I stepped back a pace, widening my field of fire, whilst Holmes tore away the coarse brown paper. Within seconds he had exposed a box covered in black fabric, with a round opening on one side encircled by shining steel.
    “A marvelous invention, the Kodak,” said he, extricating a square brown envelope from the wrapping. “It makes every man a Louis Daguerre, without the expense of maintaining a processing laboratory. One has but to snap away until the rolled film is exposed, then send the camera to the company headquarters in America, where it is opened, the film is developed, and camera and pictures are returned by the next post. With the aid of Mr. Fulton’s equally marvellous steamship, a British subject can expect to view the results within a month.”
    As he spoke, Holmes drew a sheaf of glossy photographic paper from the envelope, and there on that scrofulous street in modern London, we three gazed upon page after page of writing which few men had laid eyes on since before the fall of Rome.
    Sir Richard Burton, seated at one of the desks in his study in a worn fez and an equally venerable dressing-gown of heavy Chinese silk, shuffled through the photographs like a seer reading the Tarot. His predatory eyes were bright.
    “The bounder’s a passing good photographer, thank the Lord for that,” said he. “Shot ten pages