The Case Of The Peculiar Pink Fan - Plot & Excerpts
Yet, I must admit, one of my numerous feelings ran clearly and triumphantly in the fore: sheerest glee. How the mighty had fallen. The match-flame had travelled down the stick until it burned Sherlock’s fingers. Dropping his light, he said something unrepeatable, and from the darkness above his head I told him, “Shame on you.” Even as the match went out, I saw him startle in a most satisfactory manner. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice reaching skyward. “Shush,” I whispered, glee running away and terror taking its place. “You’ll rouse the mastiff.” “Who is it?” His tone softened, yet sharpened. “Bridget?” “Do I sound like an Irishwoman?” My wits had begun to rally, and mental functions to take hold. “What have you done with the mastiff?” “Fed it chopped beef à la bromide.” He lit another match and held it high, trying to see me—yet he did not rise to his feet. I saw that he had taken his right boot off, and his foot stuck out before him, quite swollen within its stocking, either sprained or broken.
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