孤身骑车人（2）

“At least it cannot be your health,” said he, as his  keen eyes darted over her; “so ardent a bicyclist must  be full of energy.”

She glanced down in surprise at her own feet, and I  observed the slight roughening of the side of the sole  caused by the friction of the edge of the pedal.

“Yes, I bicycle a good deal, Mr. Holmes, and that has  something to do with my visit to you to-day.”

My friend took the lady's ungloved hand and examined it  with as close an attention and as little sentiment as a  scientist would show to a specimen.

“You will excuse me, I am sure. It is my business,”  said he, as he dropped it. “I nearly fell into the  error of supposing that you were typewriting. Of  course, it is obvious that it is music. You observe the  spatulate finger-end, Watson, which is common to both  professions? There is a spirituality about the face,  however”—he gently turned it towards the light —“which the typewriter does not generate. This lady  is a musician.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, I teach music.”

“In the country, I presume, from your complexion.”

“Yes, sir; near Farnham, on the borders of Surrey.”

“A beautiful neighbourhood and full of the most  interesting associations. You remember, Watson, that it  was near there that we took Archie Stamford, the  forger. Now, Miss Violet, what has happened to you near  Farnham, on the borders of Surrey?”

The young lady, with great clearness and composure,  made the following curious statement:—

“My father is dead, Mr. Holmes. He was James Smith,  who conducted the orchestra at the old Imperial  Theatre. My mother and I were left without a relation  in the world except one uncle, Ralph Smith, who went to  Africa twenty-five years ago, and we have never had a  word from him since. When father died we were left very  poor, but one day we were told that there was an  advertisement in the Times inquiring for our  whereabouts. You can imagine how excited we were, for  we thought that someone had left us a fortune. We went  at once to the lawyer whose name was given in the  paper. There we met two gentlemen, Mr. Carruthers and  Mr. Woodley, who were home on a visit from South  Africa. They said that my uncle was a friend of theirs,  that he died some months before in great poverty in  Johannesburg, and that he had asked them with his last  breath to hunt up his relations and see that they were  in no want. It seemed strange to us that Uncle Ralph,  who took no notice of us when he was alive, should be  so careful to look after us when he was dead; but Mr.  Carruthers explained that the reason was that my uncle  had just heard of the death of his brother, and so felt  responsible for our fate.”

“至少不会是一件有碍你身一体健康的事，"福尔摩斯用那双敏锐的眼睛把她周身打量了一番说道，“象你这样一爱一骑车的人，一定是一精一力充沛的。”

她惊异地看看自己的双脚，我也发现了她鞋底一边被脚蹬子边缘磨得起一毛一了。

“是的，我经常骑自行车，福尔摩斯先生，我今天来拜访你，正是和骑车的事情有关系呢。”

我的朋友拿起这姑一娘一没戴手套的那只手，象科学家看标本那样，全神贯注而不动声色地检查着。

“我相信，你会原谅我的。这是我的业务，"福尔摩斯把姑一娘一的手放下，说道，"我几乎错把你当成打字员了。显而易见，你当然是一位音乐家。华生，你注意到那两种职业所共有的勺形指端吗？不过，她脸上有一种风采，"那女子平静地把脸转向亮处，"那是打字员所不具备的。所以，这位女士是音乐家。”

“是的，福尔摩斯先生，我教音乐。”

“从你的脸色来看，我想你是在乡下教音乐。”

“是的，先生，靠近法纳姆，在萨里边界。”

“是一个好地方，可以使人联想到许多有趣的事情。华生，你一定记得我们就是在那附近拿获了伪造货币犯阿尔奇·斯坦福德。嗯，维奥莱特小一姐，靠近法纳姆，在萨里边界，你遇到什么事了？”

那位姑一娘一十分清楚明白、镇静自若地说出下面这一段古怪离奇的事情来：

“福尔摩斯先生，我父亲已经去世了。他叫詹姆斯·史密斯，是老帝国剧院的乐队指挥。我和母亲在世上举目无亲，我只有一个叔父，他名叫拉尔夫·史密斯，于二十五年前到非洲去了，从那时期音信全无。父亲死后，我们一譬如洗，可是有一天人家告诉我们，《泰晤士报》登了一则广告，询问我们的下落。你可以想象我们是多么激动啊，因为我们想这是有人给我们留下遗产了。我们立即按报上登的姓名去找那位律师，在那里又遇到了两位先生，卡拉瑟斯和伍德利，他们是从南非回来探家的。他们说我叔父是他们的朋友，几个月以前在十分贫困中死于约翰内斯堡。我叔父临终之前，请他们去找他的亲属，并务必使他的亲属不至穷困潦倒。这似乎使我们很奇怪，我叔父拉尔夫活着的时候，并不关心我们，而在他死时却那么一精一心关照我们。可是卡拉瑟斯先生解释说，因为我叔父刚刚听到他哥哥的死讯，所以感到对我们的命运负有重大责任。”