non Š si duro cor che lagrimando,
     pregando, amando, talor non si smova,
     n‚ si freddo voler, che non si scalde.

     [there cannot be a heart so hard that weeping,
     praying, and loving sometime will not move,
     nor yet a will so cold it cannot burn.]
                    -- Petrarch, Canzoniere, CCLXV

Caleb was a fine specimen of a bull terrier, well-muscled and healthy, with an even temper and good manners. I had coveted that dog ever since the day I first saw him, a wriggling white pup, at the house of my aunt; and suddenly, by a stroke of astonishing good fortune, he had come to me.

At that time I was a young man in my first year of university. College rooms being full, I had taken lodgings in the town, and found myself quite lonely, with few acquaintances and no friends to help me pass the idle hours.

Though by nature I was a robust and enthusiastic sportsman, a recent battle with pneumonia had left me weak and short of breath, unfit to join any of the athletic teams. Dissatisfied with being a mere spectator, and lacking any other social interests, I had become accustomed to spending my leisure time lounging in my rooms with the latest sensational novel, or nursing a solitary pint at some local tavern. When Caleb arrived, however, he demanded long and frequent walks, and I was so glad of his simple companionship that I readily accommodated him.

Several times a day Caleb and I would amble about the town together. When strangers passed, singly or in droves, Caleb greeted them with placid curiosity, and often received an excess of petting and praise in return, to which he submitted with the utmost good humour. Even other dogs were treated courteously, unless they were impertinent. I was soon convinced that there was not a particle of malice in Caleb's soul, and that I could trust him utterly.

Until we met Sherlock Holmes.

I had lingered too long abed that morning, and it was nearly time for chapel. Yet Caleb must have his walk, and I dared not ask my landlady to oblige, as I had presumed upon her generosity too many times already. At last I decided to take the dog on a brief tour of the nearest streets. As I hurried off, Caleb trotting blithely by my side, I consulted my watch with a growing sense of despair.

Lost in anxious thought, I scarcely noticed the student stepping out of a side-street some twenty feet ahead. But all at once I felt Caleb strain at his leash, and heard a low and fearsome growl rumble in his throat.

"What is it, old fellow?" I asked aloud, casting a dubious eye at the long-legged youth who, with an air of unquestionable innocence, continued strolling down the road toward the college. I could see nothing odd or threatening about the man, yet with every moment Caleb's growls grew louder, his struggles against the leash more vigorous.

I called the dog to heel, but he would not heed me. To show him I was in earnest, I gave the leash an emphatic jerk -- and it snapped.

Freed, Caleb raced up the street, barking fury, heedless of my shouted reprimands. His ears lay flat against his skull, and foam flew from his snarling mouth. Hearing him, the student whirled and snapped a command, but alas, too late. Caleb fastened his teeth upon his ankle, and dog and man went down on the pavement together.

I had never imagined the terrier capable of such savagery. Jaws clamped upon his prey, he shook his head until his white face and chest were speckled with blood. Fearing to seize him, and finding no stick ready to hand, I shouted at the dog again and again, but if he heard me, he did not care to obey.

The student had fallen without a cry, though his face was ghastly white, and blood beaded his hard-bitten lips. Now he called out, in a voice so clear and masterful that I stood amazed: "Off, Caleb! Down, old boy!" When the terrier refused to respond, he tried again, first in a lower tone, then in a voice almost effeminate. To my astonishment, Caleb actually flinched at the latter, and when the command was repeated in a tone higher still, he opened his jaws and dropped back.

I dashed to the dog and seized him by the collar, but he seemed to have lost his fire, and when I slapped him by way of rebuke his whimper was half-apology. Hurriedly I retied the leash, dragged him over to a nearby post, and fastened him there while I ran to aid the victim of this bizarre assault.

The student lay still upon the ground, his robe in hopeless disarray, his left stocking and trouser leg sodden with blood. Yet even as I reached the man I saw him attempting to rise.

"Wait!" I urged him. "Let me help you."

He turned his head to look at me, revealing a strong-boned, rather ascetic face, with a high forehead and narrow, deep-set eyes. "Take my handkerchief," he said, holding out a white square of formidable proportions. "You may wish to use your own, as well."

I had never seen an injured man so unperturbed. Taking his advice, I tied his handkerchief to mine, and fashioned a rough dressing for the wounded ankle before assisting my fellow student to his feet.

"You have a handsome dog, Mr Victor Trevor," he said, and his thin lips quivered in a faint, sardonic smile.

I was so startled that I nearly dropped him. "How could you know my name?"

"I saw it embroidered in the sleeve of your gown. You have a far-sighted and practical female relative." The student, leaning heavily upon my arm, took a step forward, testing the injured foot, and I saw a wave of sick agony wash over his face. "I suppose," he muttered, "that for the moment I must rely upon your assistance."

"By all means," I assured him. "Honestly, my dear fellow, I do beg your pardon --"

"Yes, yes," he interrupted testily, "I know. The dog has never done this before. I have observed you with him many times, though always at a distance: he seemed a mild-mannered beast. Clearly I aroused some sleeping ire in him, but how?"

"I suppose you had better ask him," I said, with a lame attempt at joviality. The student regarded me coolly, and I braced myself for the barbed lash of sarcasm: but when he spoke his voice was without malice.

"Indeed, that would be best. I see that you have secured the dog upwind of our present location. Would you kindly assist me toward him?"

"What? Are you mad?"

"Past him, Trevor, not at him."

Despite my grave misgivings about the reliability of Caleb's leash and my new acquaintance's sanity, I obeyed, and we limped down the road together. As we reached the dog he began, very softly, to growl.

"That will do," said the student. "It was my scent and appearance, not some irregularity in my gait, that provoked him." To my surprise he produced a pencil, shook back the sleeve of his gown, and began jotting something down on his shirt cuff.

"This is absurd," I cried. "I will not allow it." With renewed determination I turned him about and bore him with me back toward my lodgings, while Caleb, left behind, yelped and strained at his leash. I expected the wounded man to protest, but he seemed to be lost in reverie. We limped along for some moments in silence, until I began to fear that he had fallen into a trance, so distant was his lowered gaze, so mechanical his movements. Hoping to awaken him, I asked rather sharply:

"Now then, may I ask your name, since you already know mine?"

"Sherlock Holmes," came the reply, accompanied by a piercing look that I could only interpret as reproach for having interrupted his cogitations. "Would you let go a moment? There is something I wish to see."

Dubiously I loosened my grip; he shook himself free and, to my bafflement, proceeded to hop a little way down the road on his own before beckoning me once more to his side. "When the doctor arrives," observed Holmes dryly as I rejoined him, "he will at least have no difficulty locating his patient."

I glanced down and saw what he meant: the wound in his ankle still bled copiously despite my ministrations, leaving a trail behind us like some cryptic message in morse code.

"If the doctor were observant," Holmes continued, "he would see that I had attempted to make some progress on my own. The bloodstains produced by an injured man hopping on one foot are larger and closer together than those of a man supported by a companion."

As I tried to decide whether I ought to be amazed or appalled by this revelation, the door to my lodgings flew open and my landlady fluttered out, clucking sympathy. She would gladly have lavished her tender ministrations upon "the poor young man", but when I saw how he rolled his eyes at the prospect, I persuaded her to run and fetch the doctor instead.

My rooms were not lavish, but they were comfortable. In a few minutes I was able to settle Holmes on the sofa, and begin the grim business of unwrapping the blood-soaked bandage and drawing off the tattered remnants of his stocking. It was soon evident that Caleb's teeth had done my innocent friend grave injury, and that it would be some days before Holmes could walk again.

"May I trouble you," asked my patient, his voice high with strain, "for a look at that handsome book of poetry I see upon the third shelf?"

The request seemed reasonable enough: a man in pain might be expected to seek distraction. I rose, went to the shelf, and returned with the volume he had requested. He took it and began leafing through the pages, while I returned to my work.

"There," I said at length. "Until the doctor arrives, it will have to do."

"Indeed." Holmes snapped the book shut. "Tell me, Mr Trevor, do you realize that your sister is in danger?"

It is a mercy that Mr Sidney Paget was never called upon to illustrate that scene, or readers of the Strand would have seen upon my face an expression utterly idiotic. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your twin sister. She is in the power of a man who has no doubt treated her with less respect than she deserves, and perhaps even with violence."

The thought that anyone might dare to harm Vita made the blood thunder in my ears. Had I reason to believe that what this strange young man had said was true, I would have left without delay to rescue my sister, if necessary by force. Yet Holmes's words seemed preposterous. How could he even know I had a sister, much less tell me of her welfare?

As I pondered the matter, a fresh thought occurred to me, and I felt my temper spark to life. How dare this Holmes, a stranger, suggest such things about my sister? How could he possibly know that she was in danger, unless he was in the confidence of the fiend who had abused Vita -- or was the villain himself?

My face must have betrayed these turbulent thoughts, for Holmes perceived my dilemma at once. "It is perfectly simple," he replied with some asperity. "A matter of deduction built upon observation. Be patient, and I shall explain.

"Your dog bears the name of an obscure Biblical character. Yet I have noted you sleeping in chapel on numerous occasions, and there is no Bible on your shelves. Someone else, then, must have named Caleb before he came to you.

"Recall also that in his excitement the dog failed to respond to your commands, but obeyed me when I used a different tone of voice. That voice, so familiar and compelling to Caleb, was of too high a pitch to belong to anyone but a woman, or a child. Since a child would not be likely to know or care that 'Caleb' is a Hebrew word meaning 'dog', the only remaining possibility was an educated, spiritual woman.

"Why did this woman give you the dog? He is in good health, generally well-mannered, and of no great size: it is unlikely that he caused her any personal inconvenience. I suggest, rather, that Caleb observed a man threatening his mistress, and flew to her aid. This man, of whom the dog now possesses a violent and singular hatred, seems to be of my general appearance, and like myself enjoys a pipe filled with the strongest shag his tobacconist can provide.

"This man, I deduce, held some influence over the woman, for rather than being driven off by Caleb's assault, he was able to prevail upon her to dispose of the dog instead. No doubt the lady was reluctant to give up her pet, but could not help but obey. Still, she could not bring herself to have the dog put down, and so she appealed to you.

"What was your relation to this woman, that she should entrust Caleb to your care? I could go no further in my deductions while we remained upon the street, but upon our arrival here my few remaining questions were answered.

"Few things are more revelatory of a man's character than his personal library. I said before that you possess no Bible, or at least do not keep it ready to hand; it is not surprising, therefore, that no other material of a pious sort occupies your shelves. Your favorite books, judging by the worn condition of the bindings and their placement at eye level, are of a pragmatical nature: reference works, travel accounts, military biographies. Yet this --" he patted the volume on his lap -- "a book of poetry, and deeply religious poetry at that, somehow found a place in your collection.

"The book was a gift, then, from someone of a religious bent, of whom you are fond. Was this high-minded individual the same who named Caleb?" Without awaiting my answer he opened the book and read aloud, "'To my dear Victor on our eighteenth birthday, your loving Vita.'

"It is too much to suppose," Holmes concluded with an air of triumph, "that by coincidence you have engaged the affections of a young woman who shares your age, your birthdate, and your first initial. Therefore the devout and learned Miss Vita must be at once your twin sister, Caleb's former owner, and --" he handed me the book -- "in danger."

"Very clever," I said, a little rudely. "I cannot dispute the logic. Yet for the past two years Vita has lived with my Aunt Catherine, and I can imagine no place safer. My aunt does not merely adore Vita; she relies upon her. I am sure she would never allow her to come to harm."

"Your aunt may be unaware of her niece's plight," pointed out Holmes.

"But look here, Holmes!" I burst out, trying to quell by vehemence the doubts my reason could not conquer. "If anyone ever insulted Vita, or frightened her, I know she would tell me at once."

"She may wish to tell you, but not have liberty to do so."

"I saw her but a month ago, and she seemed perfectly at ease. If she were unhappy, I am sure I would see it in her face."

"Perhaps you would," said Holmes, "if you could see her now. Tell me, Mr Trevor: what reason did your sister give for entrusting Caleb to you?"

His calm courtesy was more than a match for my anger, and I could not help but relent. "Only that she knew I had always admired him. He was not Vita's dog, you know. She raised Caleb from a pup, and he followed her everywhere, but he really belonged to my aunt's children. I assumed they must have grown tired of him, and begged for a kitten or a rabbit instead."

"For your sister's sake, I could wish your explanation correct. Yet the problem remains: where and why did Caleb acquire a passionate hatred of a tall, thin man who smells of strong tobacco?" Holmes leaned to one side and slid a hand into his pocket, wincing a little as his foot turned upon the pillow. "Speaking of which, my dear fellow, I trust you will not object if I indulge myself? Although your landlady seems determined to keep your rooms well aired, I can see by the yellowish discoloration of your first two fingers that you are well accustomed to cigarettes; and I find tobacco to have a singularly stimulating and clarifying effect on the mind."

"You are quite welcome," I hastened to assure him. He favored me with a brief smile, and proceeded to fill a briar pipe with the coarsest and most evil-looking tobacco I had ever seen.

"I should think that smell would give any dog reason to hate you," I observed as the first wisps of smoke curled around Holmes's dark head. If he heard the remark, however, he chose not to acknowledge it.

As my new friend reclined upon the sofa and veiled himself with acrid fumes, I sank into the nearby armchair and thought about my sister. Could Holmes be right? Vita was a lovely young woman, graceful of form and with a queenly bearing, the sort any man might well find a temptation. And yet --

My contemplations were interrupted by a rap upon the door. I leaped to answer it, and found the doctor there, grave and grey- bearded, black bag in hand. I gladly welcomed him in; he acknowledged me with a nod and went straight to his patient. All the while my landlady hovered behind him, bouncing up and down on her toes in a vain attempt to peer over his shoulder. Why Holmes should so have captivated her interest I could not imagine, unless it was the sheer novelty of having an injured man about the place. I thanked Mrs Morrison for her pains in fetching the doctor, assured her that all would be well, and delicately hinted that the patient might appreciate some tea and biscuits: she seemed to understand the latter at the very least, for with a last glance at the prostrate Holmes she bustled off toward the kitchen.

"This is very serious," I heard the doctor say to Holmes as I shut the door. "It will require some stitching, and you will be off that leg for at least a fortnight."

"Surely not, sir," Holmes protested, with as much animation as I had yet observed in him. "I have important studies to pursue -- vital experiments in progress that must be attended to. A fortnight is impossible."

The doctor gazed at him over the top of his spectacles. "I sympathize, young man, but you must keep off that leg for ten days at the very least, or it will be the worse for you."

The curl of Holmes's thin lips showed his displeasure, but he nodded. The doctor opened his bag and began rummaging through its contents. Not knowing what to do, and feeling my stomach rebel at the prospect of watching my fellow student being sewn up with needle and thread, I selected a book from the shelf at random and sat down to read it.

The procedure, though minor, took some time. Halfway through my landlady came in, bearing a heavily laden tray, her eyes bright with curiosity: no sooner had she seen the surgery in progress, however, than she rolled her eyes wildly and rushed out again. Yet all the while Holmes sat motionless, and uttered no sound.

"Finished," said the doctor at last, with satisfaction in his deep voice. "And I must say, young man, you are an admirable patient. I have had more trouble with cadavers." He snapped the black bag closed, and rose with some difficulty to his feet. "Now remember: ten days, no less. More, if at all possible."

"I understand you quite well, doctor. I trust, however, that I am at liberty to return to my own lodgings, provided I have Mr Trevor's assistance? I am not eager to impose on a fellow student for any longer than necessary." Holmes sat up as he spoke, and I saw his face for the first time in perhaps half an hour. It was utterly colorless, save for one hectic spot on each high, angular cheekbone; yet the aloof, faintly mocking expression had not changed.

"Yes," said the doctor, "provided you take all possible care to protect the foot from further strain or injury. Well, gentlemen, to whom shall I direct my bill?"

I opened my mouth, fully intending to explain that since it was my dog who had caused the injury, it was only right that I should pay for the treatment: but a stern look from Holmes prevented me.

"You may address it to me, sir," he said. "Mr Sherlock Holmes, at Linden House."

I knew the place: it was a serviceable but rather spartan establishment a few streets away. Either Holmes had simple tastes, or his father was less generous than mine.

"Very good, Mr Holmes," said the doctor. "Good day, Mr Trevor." He tipped his black hat to us both, and exited, narrowly avoiding a collision with my landlady, who with a flustered air explained that she had come for the tray.

"Is the maid ill?" I inquired innocently. "You are too kind to wait upon us, madam."

"Are you all right, sir?" she asked Holmes, ignoring me for the moment. "A nasty business, such a nasty business. I can't imagine what got into that dog, I truly can't."

"Caleb!" I exclaimed, clapping a hand to my forehead in self- reproach. "He must be beside himself by now. I must go and fetch him."

"Never you mind that, Mr Trevor," said my landlady, beaming. "I told Charlie all about it, and now he's tied up in back."

"That may be all very well for Charlie," said Holmes gravely, "but what of the dog?"

I had begun to think I knew what to expect of Mr Sherlock Holmes: low humour, however, was not on the list. Mrs Morrison looked blank; I choked, then spluttered; and Holmes, with a raised eyebrow and the merest twitch of a smile, returned his attention to his pipe.

Despite the ever-increasing burden of my academic studies, I resolved to spend as much time with Holmes as he might allow. After all, his injury was my fault, and I felt I must make amends. Nevertheless, our first encounters were of the briefest sort; for though his manner was always polite, he seemed to care little for my company, and refused every offer of assistance.

Despite his indifferent air, however, I could see how sorely his inactivity chafed him, and how much his restless mind suffered under the burden of idleness. So on the third day I sought out Holmes's tutors and inquired at length about the lectures he had missed. Heavily encumbered, I marched up to his rooms, and found him lying at full length upon the threadbare rug, blowing doleful smoke-rings into the air.

"Here," I said, dropping books unceremoniously on the table. "I found them lying in the street outside your door; and as they are quite heavy, I have not the slightest intention of taking them any further. I hope you may find some use for them." And I strode out again without waiting for his answer.

When I returned the next day, Holmes greeted me with good humour and offered me a chair. I glanced at the table, saw it littered with scribbled notes and opened volumes, and accepted his hospitality with a will.

"You are a persistent man, Mr Trevor," said Holmes. "And, if I may say so, a perceptive one as well."

"Surely not!" I objected. "Compared to you, I feel a dull fellow indeed. I should never have thought of noticing half the things you do."

"Ah, well," Holmes replied with a curious smile, "I never said that you were observant."

"I have thought a little on my sister's situation," I said, changing the subject rather than admit I had missed his meaning. "I confess that your reasoning makes too much sense for me to disregard, but what should I do?"

Holmes lit his pipe, leaned back in his chair, and steepled his long fingers, an oddly mature gesture for a man not yet twenty. "However sound my deductions, I would not presume to advise you given so little data. It is evident to me that your sister is intelligent, literate, and articulate. She possesses some knowledge of the Hebrew language and a thorough grounding in Scripture. She is kind-hearted but not given to sentimentality, resolute of purpose, and shows a consistent, temperate character in her dealings with others. Her eyesight is good, her hands steady, and she possesses both practicality and foresight.

"She lives on a rather remote country estate. She is, moreover, physically fit and ordinarily in good health. Apart from that--"

"Holmes!"

"I see I have alarmed you again. Really, Trevor, there is nothing supernatural about me. Looking at the book given to you by your sister and the character of her handwriting within, considering Caleb's name, disposition, and training, and not forgetting the neat embroidery in the sleeve of your college gown, all these things would be equally evident to any trained observer."

I sighed. "I will not demand you explain every detail; but I must know how you knew about my Aunt's estate."

"Caleb, of course. A dog with little space for exercise, particularly a small, stocky terrier, will run to fat. But Caleb possesses the magnificent degree of fitness that marks a country dog accustomed to run free. A well-exercised dog also suggests a well- exercised master, or in this case, mistress; this is why I said your sister was in good health."

"Someone else might have been responsible for Caleb's exercise. Some working man about the place, for instance."

"If so, then the dog would have learned to respond to his commands as well as to your sister's. But he is evidently unused to a man's voice."

"How did you know the estate was so remote?"

"Because if there were other houses nearby, the odd fracas with another dog would have been inevitable. Caleb shows no signs of any such encounter."

"You amaze me," I said. "You are right, of course -- about everything. If I tell you more about Vita, will you help me?"

Holmes was silent a moment, his pipe glowing fiercely. Then he said, "I will help you if I can."

"Well, then!" I exclaimed, and pulled my chair closer to his. "Where shall I begin?"

My fellow student took the pipe out of his mouth and regarded it seriously. At last he raised his shrewd gray eyes to mine. "Precisely how attractive," he said, "is your sister?"