[obi/Doyle/sign.of.four.txt]
Chapter 1
The Science of Deduction
Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-
piece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case.
With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate
needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his
eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all
dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he
thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and
sank back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of
satisfaction.
Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this
performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On
the contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the
sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought
that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had
registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject;
but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion
which made him the last man with whom one would care to take
anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly
manner, and the experience which I had had of his many extraor-
dinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing
him.
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