As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness I saw that I was not alone. Across the narrow basement room a figure lay upon a mattress on the floor. I tried to move and found that I was tied to the bed I was lying upon, my hands and feet bound securely by rope. The figure across the room lay perfectly still, and I wondered if he were alive or dead. A horrible realization suddenly came over me, and I whispered into the darkness. “Holmes,” I said softly. The figure did not stir. “Holmes!” I said louder. “Holmes, it’s Watson.” There was a pause during which the pounding in my head drowned out all other sounds, and then the figure moved and groaned. “Holmes!” I said. “Wake up, Holmes!” It was Holmes all right, and I thanked God he was alive, but I shall never erase from my mind the sight of him on that night. He rolled over so that the light from the window caught his face, and I gasped when I saw it. He was so badly cut and bruised that he was at first almost unrecognizable.
