On my remarking that I was constantly in the habit of doing thesame thing you expressed incredulity.”
“Oh, no!”
“Perhaps not with your tongue, my dear Watson, but certainlywith your eyebrows. So when I saw you throw down your paperand enter upon a train of thought, I was very happy to have theopportunity of reading it off, and eventually of breaking into it, asa proof that I had been in rapport with you.”
But I was still far from satisfied. “In the example which you readto me,” said I, “the reasoner drew his conclusions from the actionsof the man whom he observed. If I remember right, he stumbledover a heap of stones, looked up at the stars, and so on. But I havebeen seated quietly in my chair, and what clues can I have givenyou?”
“You do yourself an injustice. The features are given to man asthe means by which he shall express his emotions, and yours arefaithful servants.”
“Do you mean to say that you read my train of thoughts frommy features?”
“Your features and especially your eyes. Perhaps you cannotyourself recall how your reverie commenced?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Then I will tell you. After throwing down your paper, whichwas the action which drew my attention to you, you sat for half aminute with a vacant expression. Then your eyes fixed themselvesupon your newly framed picture of General Gordon, and I sawby the alteration in your face that a train of thought had beenstarted. But it did not lead very far. Your eyes flashed across to theunframed portrait of Henry Ward Beecher which stands upon thetop of your books. Then you glanced up at the wall, and of courseyour meaning was obvious. You were thinking that if the portraitwere framed it would just cover that bare space and correspondwith Gordon’s picture over there.”
“You have followed me wonderfully!” I exclaimed.
“So far I could hardly have gone astray. But now your thoughtswent back to Beecher, and you looked hard across as if you werestudying the character in his features. Then your eyes ceasedto pucker, but you continued to look across, and your face wasthoughtful. You were recalling the incidents of Beecher’s career.
I was well aware that you could not do this without thinkingof the mission which he undertook on behalf of the North atthe time of the Civil War, for I remember your expressing yourpassionate indignation at the way in which he was received bythe more turbulent of our people. You felt so strongly about itthat I knew you could not think of Beecher without thinkingof that also. When a moment later I saw your eyes wander awayfrom the picture, I suspected that your mind had now turned tothe Civil War, and when I observed that your lips set, your eyessparkled, and your hands clenched I was positive that you wereindeed thinking of the gallantry which was shown by both sidesin that desperate struggle. But then, again, your face grew sadder,you shook your head. You were dwelling upon the sadness andhorror and useless waste of life. Your hand stole towards your ownold wound and a smile quivered on your lips, which showed methat the ridiculous side of this method of settling internationalquestions had forced itself upon your mind. At this point I agreedwith you that it was preposterous and was glad to find that all mydeductions had been correct.”
“Absolutely!” said I. “And now that you have explained it, Iconfess that I am as amazed as before.”
“It was very superficial, my dear Watson, I assure you. I shouldnot have intruded it upon your attention had you not shown someincredulity the other day. But I have in my hands here a littleproblem which may prove to be more difficult of solution than mysmall essay in thought reading. Have you observed in the paper ashort paragraph referring to the remarkable contents of a packetsent through the post to Miss Cushing, of Cross Street, Croydon?”
“No, I saw nothing.”
“Ah! then you must have overlooked it. Just toss it over to me.
Here it is, under the financial column. Perhaps you would be goodenough to read it aloud.”
I picked up the paper which he had thrown back to me and readthe paragraph indicated. It was headed “A Gruesome Packet.”
“Miss Susan Cushing, living at Cross Street, Croydon, has beenmade the victim of what must be regarded as a peculiarly revoltingpractical joke unless some more sinister meaning should prove tobe attached to the incident. At two o’clock yesterday afternoona small packet, wrapped in brown paper, was handed in by thepostman. A cardboard box was inside, which was filled with coarsesalt. On emptying this, Miss Cushing was horrified to find twohuman ears, apparently quite freshly severed. The box had beensent by parcel post from Belfast upon the morning before. Thereis no indication as to the sender, and the matter is the moremysterious as Miss Cushing, who is a maiden lady of fifty, has led amost retired life, and has so few acquaintances or correspondentsthat it is a rare event for her to receive anything through thepost. Some years ago, however, when she resided at Penge, shelet apartments in her house to three young medical students,whom she was obliged to get rid of on account of their noisy andirregular habits. The police are of opinion that this outrage mayhave been perpetrated upon Miss Cushing by these youths, whoowed her a grudge and who hoped to frighten her by sending herthese relics of the dissecting-rooms. Some probability is lent tothe theory by the fact that one of these students came from thenorth of Ireland, and, to the best of Miss Cushing’s belief, fromBelfast. In the meantime, the matter is being actively investigated,Mr. Lestrade, one of the very smartest of our detective officers,being in charge of the case.”
“So much for the Daily Chronicle,” said Holmes as I finishedreading. “Now for our friend Lestrade. I had a note from him thismorning, in which he says:
