"Well, not much," admitted Dr. Stanley. "Actually, all she said was 'Thank you.' But at least it was something. Yesterday I was thinking of diagnosing her as an hysterical cataleptic, but it won't wash. She's not hysteric nor cataleptic today, exactly; but she is still withdrawn. She sits and stares past one into space with a profound, um, indifference. She still will not talk to me. Perhaps you may have better luck; it's worth a try, anyway."

He turned to escort us through the door. The plainly furnished little hospital room was lit by a cool grey light through a pair of tall, narrow windows. The patient we had come to see was sitting up against a pile of pillows upon her metal cot, dressed in a hospital gown, crisp white sheets pulled into her lap. She was a most extraordinary-looking woman. A thick, silken mane of lion-colored hair framed a pale face of prominent but very harmonious bone structure. High, white forehead, high, wide cheekbones, and a square jaw were accentuated by a thinness of flesh almost suggestive of undernourishment. Lips of palest coral were surmounted by a strong, straight nose and deep-set, crystal-grey eyes which took no notice of us at first, but seemed fixed upon the foot of the bed in an inward tenseness. She sat quietly but for some movement of her long, strong-looking hands, tracing small circles upon the hem of the sheet with a short, unevenly broken fingernail.

"Hm," muttered Holmes, standing at the foot of the bed and looking down at her. He moved to the right side of the bed and lifted her hands. They were unresisting, but for the first time her eyelids flickered and it seemed to me she focused on my companion.

"We see at once that she is right-handed, literate, and not a menial," he began, in the tone of a professor addressing his class. His acid-stained finger traced a prominent writer's callus upon the lady's right middle digit. "She has handled chemicals extensively.