We had sprung to our feet, and for a few moments we stared
in silent amazement at this ponderous piece of wreckage, which
told of some sudden and fatal storm far out on the ocean of life.
Then Holmes hurried with a cushion for his head. and I with
brandy for his lips. The heavy, white face was seamed with lines
of trouble, the hanging pouches under the closed eyes were
leaden in colour, the loose mouth drooped dolorously at the
corners, the rolling chins were unshaven. Collar and shirt bore
the grime of a long journey, and the hair bristled unkempt from
the well-shaped head. It was a sorely stricken man who lay
before us.
"What is it, Watson?" asked Holmes.
"Absolute exhaustion -- possibly mere hunger and fatigue,"
said I, with my finger on the thready pulse, where the stream of
life trickled thin and small.
"Return ticket from Mackleton, in the north of England,"
said Holmes, drawing it from the watch-pocket. "It is not twelve
o'clock yet. He has certainly been an early starter."
The puckered eyelids had begun to quiver, and now a pair of
vacant gray eyes looked up at us.
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