Your sister is dead, then?
She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to
speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have
described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and
position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother s maiden sister, Miss
Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally
allowed to pay short visits at this lady s house. Julia went there at
Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to
whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when
my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within
a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the
terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion.
Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed
and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and
glanced across at his visitor.
Pray be precise as to details, said he.
It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is
seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very
old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are
on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of
the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott s, the second
my sister s, and the third my own. There is no communication between
them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself
plain?
Perfectly so.
The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal
night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he
had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the
strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her
room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time,
chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o clock she rose to
leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.
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