Easter Break

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The Read-Headed League, part 2

ˈtraɪ ðə seˈtiː ˈsed ˈhəʊmz | rɪˈlæpsɪŋ ˈɪntu ɪz ˈɑːmʧeər | əm ˈpʊtɪŋ ɪz ˈfɪŋɡətɪps təˈɡeðə | ˈæz wəz ɪz ˈkʌstəm | ˈwen ɪn ʤuˈdɪʃl̩ ˈmuːdz || aɪ ˈnəʊ maɪ ˈdɪə ˈwɒtsn̩ | ðəʧu ˈʃeə maɪ ˈlʌv | əv ˈɔːl ðəts bɪˈzɑːr | ən ˈaʊtˈsaɪd ðə kənˈvenʃn̩z | ən ˈhʌmdrʌm ruˈtiːn | əv ˈevrideɪ ˈlaɪf || juv ˈʃəʊn jɔː ˈrelɪʃ ˈfɔːr ɪt | baɪ ði ɪnˈθuːziæzm̩ | wɪʧ əz ˈprɒmtɪʤu tə ˈkrɒnəkl̩ | ˈænd | ˈɪf jul ɪkˈskjuːz maɪ ˈseɪɪŋ ˈsəʊ | ˈsʌmwɒt tu ɪmˈbelɪʃ | ˈsəʊ ˈmeni əv maɪ ˈəʊn ˈlɪtl̩ ədˈvenʧəz

jɔː ˈkeɪsɪz əv ɪnˈdiːb biːn ə ðə ˈɡreɪtɪst ˈɪntres tə mi aɪ əbˈzɜːvd

jul rɪˈmembə ðət aɪ rɪˈmɑːk ði ˈʌðə ˈdeɪ | ˈʤʌs bɪˈfɔː wi ˈwent ɪntə ðə ˈveri ˈsɪmpl̩ ˈprɒbləm | prɪˈzentɪb baɪ ˈmɪs ˈmeəri ˈsʌðələnd | ðət fə ˈstreɪnʤ ɪˈfeks | ən ɪkˈstrɔːdn̩ri ˈkɒmbəˈneɪʃn̩z | wi məs ˈɡəʊ tə ˈlaɪf ɪtˈself | wɪʧ ɪz ˈɔːwɪz ˈfɑː ˈmɔː ˈdeərɪŋ | ðə ˈeni ˈefət ə ði ɪˈmæʤəˈneɪʃn̩

ə ˈprɒpəˈzɪʃn̩ | wɪʧ aɪ ˈtʊk ðə ˈlɪbəti əv ˈdaʊtɪŋ

“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. “I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures.”

“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me,” I observed.

“You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination.”

“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting.”

The Red-Headed League, part 1

aɪɡ ˈkɔːld əˈpɒm maɪ ˈfrend | ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz | ˈwʌn ˈdeɪ ɪn ði ˈɔːtəm əv ˈlɑːs ˈjɪər | ən ˈfaʊnd ɪm ɪn ˈdiːp ˈkɒnvəˈseɪʃn̩ | wɪð ə ˈveri ˈstaʊt | ˈflɒrɪd ˈfeɪst ˈeldəli ˈʤentl̩mən | wɪð ˈfaɪəri ˈred ˈheə || wɪð ən əˈpɒləʤi fə maɪ ɪnˈtruːʒn̩ | aɪ wəz əˈbaʊt tə wɪðˈdrɔː | wen ˈhəʊmz ˈpʊl mi əˈbrʌpli ˈɪntə ðə ˈruːm | əŋ ˈkləʊzd ðə ˈdɔː bɪˈhaɪm mi

ju ˈkʊbm̩ ˈpɒsəbli əv ˈkʌm | ət ə ˈbetə ˈtaɪm maɪ ˈdɪə ˈwɒtsn̩ | hi ˈseɡ ˈkɔːdiəli

aɪ wəz əˈfreɪd ðəʧu wər ɪŋˈɡeɪʤd

ˈsəʊ aɪ ˈæm || ˈveri ˈmʌʧ ˈsəʊ

ðen aɪ kən ˈweɪt ɪn ðə ˈneks ˈruːm

ˈnɒt ə ˈtɔːl | ˈðɪs ˈʤentl̩mən ˈmɪstə ˈwɪlsn̩ | həz biːm ˈpɑːtnər ən ˈhelpər | ɪm ˈmeni ə maɪ ˈməʊs səkˈsesfl̩ ˈkeɪsɪz | ən aɪ ˈhæv ˈnəʊ ˈdaʊt | ðət il ˈbiː ə ði ˈʌpməʊs ˈjuːs tə mi | ɪn ˈjɔːz ˈɔːlsəʊ

ðə ˈstaʊt ˈʤentl̩mən ˈhɑːf ˈrəʊz frəm ɪz ˈʧeər | əŋ ˈɡeɪv ə ˈbɒb əv ˈɡriːtɪŋ | wɪð ə ˈkwɪk ˈlɪtl̩ ˈkwesʧənɪŋ ˈɡlɑːns | frəm ɪz ˈsmɔːl ˈfæt ɪnˈsɜːkl̩d ˈaɪz

I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

“You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson,” he said cordially.

“I was afraid that you were engaged.”

“So I am. Very much so.”

“Then I can wait in the next room.”

“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also.”

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes.

A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 3, part 4

ˈwɒt ə ˈwʊmən | ˈəʊ ˈwɒt ə ˈwʊmən ˈkraɪd ðə ˈkɪŋ əv bəˈhiːmiə | ˈwen wid ˈɔːl ˈθriː ˈred ðɪs ɪˈpɪsl̩ || ˈdɪd aɪ ˈnɒt ˈtel ju | ˈhaʊ ˈkwɪk ən ˈrezəluːt ʃi ˈwɒz || ˈwʊd ʃi ˈnɒt əv ˈmeɪd ən ˈæbrəbl̩ ˈkwiːn || ˈɪz ɪt ˈnɒt ə ˈpɪti | ʃi wəz ˈnɒt ɒm maɪ ˈlevl̩

frəm ˈwɒt aɪv ˈsiːn ə ðə ˈleɪdi | ʃi ˈsiːmz ɪnˈdiːd | tə bi ˈɒn ə ˈveri ˈdɪfrənt ˈlevl̩ | tə jɔː ˈmæʤəsti ˈsed ˈhəʊmz ˈkəʊldli || aɪm ˈsɒri ðət aɪv ˈnɒp biːn ˈeɪbl̩ | tə ˈbrɪŋ jɔː ˈmæʤəstiz ˈbɪznəs | tu ə ˈmɔː səkˈsesfl̩ kəŋˈkluːʒn̩

ˈɒn ðə ˈkɒntrəri maɪ ˈdɪə ˈsɜː | ˈkraɪd ðə ˈkɪŋ | ˈnʌθɪŋ kəb bi ˈmɔː səkˈsesfl̩ || aɪ ˈnəʊ ðət ɜː ˈwɜːdz ɪnˈvaɪələt || ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːfs ˈnaʊ əz ˈseɪf | əz ˈɪf ɪt wər ˈɪn ðə ˈfaɪə

aɪm ˈɡlæd tə ˈhɪə jɔː ˈmæʤəsti ˈseɪ ˈsəʊ

aɪm ɪˈmensli ɪnˈdetɪd tə ju || ˈpreɪ ˈtel mi | ɪn ˈwɒt ˈweɪ aɪ kən rɪˈwɔːʤu || ˈðɪs ˈrɪŋ || hi ˈslɪpt ən ˈemrəld ˈsneɪk ˈrɪŋ | frəm ɪz ˈfɪŋɡə | ən ˈheld ɪt ˈaʊt | ɒn ðə ˈpɑːm əv ɪz ˈhænd

jɔː ˈmæʤəsti ˈhæz ˈsʌmθɪŋ | wɪʧ aɪ ʃəd ˈvæljuː ˈiːvn̩ ˈmɔː ˈhaɪli ˈsed ˈhəʊmz

ju ˈhæv ˈbʌt tə ˈneɪm ɪt

ˈðɪs ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf

ðə ˈkɪŋ ˈsteəd ət ɪm ɪn əˈmeɪzmənt

ˈaɪriːnz ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf i ˈkraɪd || ˈsɜːtn̩li | ɪf ju ˈwɪʃ ɪt

aɪ ˈθæŋk jɔː ˈmæʤəsti || ˈðen ðəz ˈnəʊ ˈmɔː tə bi ˈdʌn ɪn ðə ˈmætə || aɪ ˈhæv ði ˈɒnə tə ˈwɪʃ ju | ə ˈveri ˈɡʊb ˈmɔːnɪŋ || hi ˈbaʊd | ən ˈtɜːnɪŋ əˈweɪ | wɪˈðaʊt əbˈzɜːvɪŋ ðə ˈhænd | wɪʧ ðə ˈkɪŋ əd ˈstreʧt ˈaʊt tu ɪm | hi ˈset ˈɒf ɪm maɪ ˈkʌmpəni | fər ɪz ˈʧeɪmbəz

ən ˈðæt wəz ˈhaʊ ə ˈɡreɪt ˈskændl̩ | ˈθretn̩ tu əˈfek ðə ˈkɪŋdəm əv bəˈhiːmiə | ən ˈhaʊ ðə ˈbes ˈplænz əv ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz | wə ˈbiːpm̩ baɪ ə ˈwʊmənz ˈwɪt || hi ˈjuːs tə ˈmeɪk ˈmeri | ˈəʊvə ðə ˈklevənəs əv ˈwɪmɪn | bət aɪv ˈnɒt ˈhɜːd ɪm ˈduː ɪt əv ˈleɪt || ən ˈwen i ˈspiːks əv ˈaɪriːn ˈædlə | ɔː ˈwen i rɪˈfɜːz tu ɜː ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf | ɪts ˈɔːwɪz ˈʌndə ði ˈɒnrəbl̩ ˈtaɪtl̩ | əv ˈðiː ˈwʊmən

 Doyle, Arthur Conan. The Original Illustrated Sherlock Holmes. “Reproduced from the original publication in The Strand Magazine with the classic illustrations by Sidney Paget.” Edison, New Jersey: Castle Books, [after 1954]. Internet Archive version of a copy donated by Friends of the San Francisco Library. http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/pagets/10.html

“What a woman—oh, what a woman!” cried the King of Bohemia, when we had all three read this epistle. “Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?”

“From what I have seen of the lady she seems indeed to be on a very different level to your Majesty,” said Holmes coldly. “I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business to a more successful conclusion.”

“On the contrary, my dear sir,” cried the King; “nothing could be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire.”

“I am glad to hear your Majesty say so.”

“I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring—” He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

“Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly,” said Holmes.

“You have but to name it.”

“This photograph!”

The King stared at him in amazement.

“Irene's photograph!” he cried. “Certainly, if you wish it.”

“I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good-morning.” He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman.

A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 3, part 3

maɪ ˈdɪə ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz

ju ˈrɪəli ˈdɪd ɪt ˈveri ˈwel || ju ˈtʊk mi ˈɪŋ kəmˈpliːtli || ənˈtɪl ˈɑːftə ði əˈlɑːm əv ˈfaɪə | aɪ ˈhædn̩ ə səˈspɪʃn̩ || bət ˈðen | ˈwen aɪ ˈfaʊnd ˈhaʊ aɪb bɪˈtreɪb maɪˈself | aɪ bɪˈɡæn tə ˈθɪŋk || ˈaɪb biːn ˈwɔːnd əˈɡensʧu | ˈmʌnθs əˈɡəʊ || aɪb biːn ˈtəʊld | ðət ˈɪf ðə ˈkɪŋ ɪmˈplɔɪd ən ˈeɪʤənt | ɪt əd ˈsɜːtn̩li bi ˈjuː || ən jɔːr əˈdres əb biːŋ ˈɡɪvm̩ mi || ˈjet wɪð ˈɔːl ˈðɪs | ju ˈmeɪb mi rɪˈviːl | wɒʧu ˈwɒntɪd tə ˈnəʊ || ˈiːvn̩ ˈɑːftər aɪ bɪˈkeɪm səˈspɪʃəs | aɪ ˈfaʊnd ɪt ˈhɑːd tə ˈθɪŋk ˈiːvl̩ | əv ˈsʌʧ ə ˈdɪə ˈkaɪnd ˈəʊl ˈklɜːʤimən || bəʧu ˈnəʊ | aɪv biːn ˈtraɪnd əz ən ˈæktrəs maɪˈself || ˈmeɪl ˈkɒsʧuːm | ɪz ˈnʌθɪŋ ˈnjuː tə mi || aɪ ˈɒfn̩ ˈteɪk ədˈvɑːntɪʤ | ə ðə ˈfriːdəm ɪk ˈɡɪvz || aɪ ˈsent ˈʤɒn | ðə ˈkəʊʧmən | tə ˈwɒʧ ju | ˈræn ˈʌp ˈsteəz | ˈɡɒt ɪntə maɪ ˈwɔːkɪŋ ˈkləʊz əz aɪ ˈkɔːl ðəm | əŋ ˈkeɪm ˈdaʊn | ˈʤʌst əz ju dɪˈpɑːtɪd

wel aɪ ˈfɒləʊʤu tə jɔː ˈdɔː | ən ˈsəʊ ˈmeɪd ˈʃɔː | ðət aɪ wəz ˈrɪəli ən ˈɒbʤekt əv ˈɪntrest | tə ðə ˈseləbreɪtɪb ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz || ˈðen aɪ ˈrɑːdər ɪmˈpruːdn̩tli | ˈwɪʃʧu ˈɡʊd ˈnaɪt | ən ˈstɑːtɪd fə ðə ˈtempl̩ | tə ˈsiː maɪ ˈhʌzbənd

wi ˈbəʊθ ˈθɔːt | ðə ˈbes rɪˈzɔːs wəz ˈflaɪt | wem pəˈsuːb baɪ ˈsəʊ fəˈmɪdəbl̩ ən ænˈtæɡənɪst | səʊ jul ˈfaɪn ðə ˈnest ˈemti | wen ju ˈkɔːl təˈmɒrəʊ || ˈæz tə ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf | jɔː ˈklaɪəmp meɪ ˈrest ɪm ˈpiːs || aɪ ˈlʌv ən əm ˈlʌvd | baɪ ə ˈbetə ˈmæn ðən ˈhiː || ðə ˈkɪŋ meɪ ˈduː wɒt i ˈwɪl | wɪˈðaʊt ˈhɪndrəns | frəm ˈwʌn huːm iz ˈkruːəli ˈrɒŋd || aɪ ˈkiːp ɪt ˈəʊnli tə ˈseɪfɡɑːb maɪˈself | ən tə prɪˈzɜːv ə ˈwepən | wɪʧl̩ ˈɔːwɪz sɪˈkjɔː mi | frəm ˈeni ˈsteps | wɪʧ i ˈmaɪt ˈteɪk ɪn ðə ˈfjuːʧə || aɪ ˈliːv ə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf | wɪʧ i ˈmaɪk ˈkeə tə pəˈzes | ən aɪ rɪˈmeɪn | ˈdɪə ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz

ˈveri ˈtruːli ˈjɔːz

ˈaɪriːn ˈnɔːtn | ˈneɪ ˈædlə

“My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:

“You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had been told that if the King employed an agent it would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you, ran up stairs, got into my walking-clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you departed.

“Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for the Temple to see my husband.

“We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

“Very truly yours,
“Irene Norton, née Adler.”

A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 3, part 2

ðə ˈdɔːr əv ˈbraɪəni ˈlɒʤ | wəz ˈəʊpən | ən ən ˈeldəli ˈwʊmən | ˈstʊd əˈpɒn ðə ˈsteps || ʃi ˈwɒʧt əs | wɪð ə sɑːˈdɒnɪk ˈaɪ | əz wi ˈstep frəm ðə ˈbruːəm

ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz aɪ bɪˈliːv ˈsed ʃi

aɪ ˈæm ˈmɪstə ˈhəʊmz | ˈɑːnsəb maɪ kəmˈpænjən | ˈlʊkɪŋ ˈæt ə | wɪð ə ˈkwesʧənɪŋ | ən ˈrɑːðə ˈstɑːtl̩ɡ ˈɡeɪz

ɪnˈdiːd || maɪ ˈmɪstrəs ˈtəʊl mi | ðəʧu wə ˈlaɪkli tə ˈkɔːl || ʃi ˈlef ðɪs ˈmɔːnɪŋ | wɪð ɜː ˈhʌzbənd | baɪ ðə ˈfaɪv ˈfɪftiːn ˈtraɪn | frəm ˈʧærɪŋ ˈkrɒs | fə ðə ˈkɒntənənt

ˈwɒt || ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz ˈstæɡəb ˈbæk | ˈwaɪt wɪð ˈʃæɡrɪn ən səˈpraɪz || ʤu ˈmiːn ðət ʃiz ˈleft ˈɪŋɡlənd

ˈnevə tə rɪˈtɜːn

ən ðə ˈpeɪpəz ˈɑːs ðə ˈkɪŋ ˈhɔːsli || ˈɔːl ɪz ˈlɒst

wi ʃl̩ ˈsiː || hi ˈpʊʃ ˈpɑːs ðə ˈsɜːvənt | ən ˈrʌʃt ɪntə ðə ˈdrɔːrɪŋ ˈruːm | ˈfɒləʊb baɪ ðə ˈkɪŋ əm məˈself || ðə ˈfɜːnəʧə wəz ˈskætəd əˈbaʊt | ɪn ˈevri dəˈrekʃn̩ | wɪð dɪsˈmæntl̩d ˈʃelvz | ən ˈəʊpən ˈdrɔːz | əz ˈɪf ðə ˈleɪdi | əd ˈhʌrɪdli ˈrænsæk ðəm | bɪˈfɔːr ɜː ˈflaɪt || ˈhəʊmz ˈrʌʃt ət ðə ˈbel ˈpʊl | ˈtɔː ˈbæk ə ˈsmɔːl ˈslaɪdɪŋ ˈʃʌtə | əm ˈplʌnʤɪŋ ɪn ɪz ˈhænd | ˈpʊld ˈaʊt ə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf | ən ə ˈletə || ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf | wəz əv ˈaɪriːn ˈædlər əˈself | ɪn ˈiːvnɪŋ ˈdres | ðə ˈletə wəz ˈsuːpəˈskraɪbd | tə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz ɪˈskwaɪə || tə bi ˈlef tɪl ˈkɔːld ˈfɔː || maɪ ˈfren ˈtɔːr ɪt ˈəʊpən | ən wi ˈɔːl ˈθriː ˈred ɪt təˈɡeðə || ɪt wəz ˈdeɪtɪd əp ˈmɪdnaɪt | əv ðə prɪˈsiːdɪŋ ˈnaɪt | ən ˈræn ɪn ˈðɪs ˈweɪ

The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?” said she.

“I am Mr. Holmes,” answered my companion, looking at her with a questioning and rather startled gaze.

“Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this morning with her husband by the 5.15 train from Charing Cross for the Continent.”

“What!” Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and surprise. “Do you mean that she has left England?”

“Never to return.”

“And the papers?” asked the King hoarsely. “All is lost.”

“We shall see.” He pushed past the servant and rushed into the drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to “Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for.” My friend tore it open and we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way:

A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 3, part 1

aɪ ˈslept əp ˈbeɪkə ˈstriːt ˈðæt ˈnaɪt | ən wi wər ɪŋˈɡeɪʤd əˈpɒn ɑː ˈtəʊst əŋ ˈkɒfi | ɪn ðə ˈmɔːnɪŋ | ˈwen ðə ˈkɪŋ əv bəˈhiːmiə ˈrʌʃt ɪntə ðə ˈruːm

juv ˈrɪəli ˈɡɒt ɪt i ˈkraɪd | ˈɡrɑːspɪŋ ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz | baɪ ˈaɪðə ˈʃəʊldər | ən ˈlʊkɪŋ ˈiːɡəli ˈɪntu ɪz ˈfeɪs

ˈnɒt ˈjet

bəʧu ˈhæv ˈhəʊps

aɪ ˈhæv ˈhəʊps

ðeŋ ˈkʌm || aɪm ˈɔːl ɪmˈpeɪʃn̩s tə bi ˈɡɒn

wi ˈmʌst ˈhæv ə ˈkæb

ˈnəʊ | maɪ ˈbruːəmz ˈweɪtɪŋ

ðen ˈðætl̩ ˈsɪmpləfaɪ ˈmætəz || wi dɪˈsendɪd | ən ˈstɑːtɪd ˈɒf ˈwʌns ˈmɔː | fə ˈbraɪəni ˈlɒʤ

ˈaɪriːn ˈædləz ˈmærid rɪˈmɑːkt ˈhəʊmz

ˈmærid || ˈwen

ˈjestədeɪ

bət tə ˈhuːm

tu ən ˈɪŋɡlɪʃ ˈlɔɪə | ˈneɪmd ˈnɔːtn̩

bət ʃi ˈkʊd ˈnɒt ˈlʌv ɪm

aɪm ɪn ˈhəʊps ðət ʃi ˈdʌz

ən ˈwaɪ ɪn ˈhəʊps

bɪˈkɒz ɪt əd ˈspeə jɔː ˈmæʤəsti | ˈɔːl ˈfɪər əv ˈfjuːʧər əˈnɔɪəns || ɪf ðə ˈleɪdi ˈlʌvz ɜː ˈhʌzbənd | ʃi ˈdʌzn̩ ˈlʌv jɔː ˈmæʤəsti || ɪf ʃi ˈdʌzn̩ ˈlʌv jɔː ˈmæʤəsti | ðəz ˈnəʊ ˈriːzn̩ | ˈwaɪ ʃi ʃʊd ˈɪntəˈfɪə | wɪð jɔː ˈmæʤəstiz ˈplæn

ɪts ˈtruː || ən ˈjet | ˈwel || aɪ ˈwɪʃ ʃib ˈbiːn əv maɪ ˈəʊn ˈsteɪʃn̩ || ˈwɒt ə ˈkwiːn ʃid əv ˈmeɪd || hi rɪˈlæpst ɪntu ə ˈmuːdi ˈsaɪləns | wɪʧ wəz ˈnɒp ˈbrəʊkən | ənˈtɪl wi ˈdruː ˈʌp | ɪn ˈsɜːpəntaɪn ˈævənjuː

I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room.

“You have really got it!” he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

“Not yet.”

“But you have hopes?”

“I have hopes.”

“Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone.”

“We must have a cab.”

“No, my brougham is waiting.”

“Then that will simplify matters.” We descended and started off once more for Briony Lodge.

“Irene Adler is married,” remarked Holmes.

“Married! When?”

“Yesterday.”

“But to whom?”

“To an English lawyer named Norton.”

“But she could not love him.”

“I am in hopes that she does.”

“And why in hopes?”

“Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with your Majesty's plan.”

“It is true. And yet—Well! I wish she had been of my own station! What a queen she would have made!” He relapsed into a moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.

A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 2, part 14

ən ˈnaʊ aɪ ˈɑːst

ɑː ˈkwests ˈpræktɪkli ˈfɪnɪʃt || aɪ ʃl̩ ˈkɔːl wɪð ðə ˈkɪŋ təˈmɒrəʊ | ən wɪð ˈjuː | ɪf ju ˈkeə tə ˈkʌm wɪð əs || wil bi ˈʃəʊn ɪntə ðə ˈsɪtɪŋ ˈruːm | tə ˈweɪt fə ðə ˈleɪdi | bət ɪts ˈprɒbəbl̩ | ðət ˈwen ʃi ˈkʌmz | ʃi meɪ ˈfaɪn ˈnaɪðər ˈʌs | ˈnɔː ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf || ɪp ˈmaɪp bi ə ˈsætəsˈfækʃn̩ | tu ɪz ˈmæʤəsti | tə rɪˈɡeɪn ɪt | wɪð ɪz ˈəʊn ˈhænz

ən ˈwenl̩ ju ˈkɔːl

ət ˈeɪt ɪn ðə ˈmɔːnɪŋ || ʃil ˈnɒp bi ˈʌp | ˈsəʊ ðət wi ʃl̩ ˈhæv ə ˈklɪə ˈfiːld || bɪˈsaɪdz | wi ˈmʌs bi ˈprɒmt | fə ˈðɪs ˈmærɪʤ | meɪ ˈmiːn ə kəmˈpliːt ˈʧeɪnʤ | ɪn ɜː ˈlaɪf ən ˈhæbɪts || aɪ ˈmʌs ˈwaɪə tə ðə ˈkɪŋ | wɪˈðaʊt dɪˈleɪ

wid ˈriːʧ ˈbeɪkə ˈstriːt | ən əd ˈstɒpt ət ðə ˈdɔː || hi wəz ˈsɜːʧɪŋ ɪz ˈpɒkɪts | fə ðə ˈkiː | wen ˈsʌmwʌn ˈpɑːsɪŋ ˈsed

ˈɡʊd ˈnaɪp ˈmɪstə ˈʃɜːlɒk ˈhəʊmz

ðə wə ˈsevrəl ˈpiːpl̩ ɒn ðə ˈpeɪvmənt ət ðə ˈtaɪm | bət ðə ˈɡriːtɪŋ əˈpɪəd tə ˈkʌm frəm ə ˈslɪm ˈjuːθ | ɪn ən ˈʌlstə | hud ˈhʌrib ˈbaɪ

aɪv ˈhɜːd ˈðæt ˈvɔɪs bɪˈfɔː ˈsed ˈhəʊmz | ˈsteərɪŋ ˈdaʊn ðə ˈdɪmli ˈlɪt ˈstriːt || naʊ aɪ ˈwʌndə ˈhuː ðə ˈʤuːs ˈðæk kəd ə ˈbiːn

Doyle, Arthur Conan. The Original Illustrated Sherlock Holmes. “Reproduced from the original publication in The Strand Magazine with the classic illustrations by Sidney Paget.” Edison, New Jersey: Castle Books, [after 1954]. Internet Archive version of a copy donated by Friends of the San Francisco Library.   http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/pagets/9.html

“And now?” I asked.

“Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own hands.”

“And when will you call?”

“At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King without delay.”

We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:

“Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes.”

There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by.

“I've heard that voice before,” said Holmes, staring down the dimly lit street. “Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been.”

A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 2, part 13

ju ˈdɪd ɪt ˈveri ˈnaɪsli ˈdɒktə hi rɪˈmɑːkt || ˈnʌθɪŋ kəd ə biːm ˈbetə || ɪts ˈɔːl ˈraɪt

ju ˈhæv ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf

aɪ ˈnəʊ weər ɪt ˈɪz

ən ˈhaʊ dɪʤu ˈfaɪnd ˈaʊt

ʃi ˈʃəʊb mi | ˈæz aɪ ˈtəʊlʤu ʃi ˈwʊd

aɪm ˈstɪl ɪn ðə ˈdɑːk

aɪ ˈdəʊnt ˈwɪʃ tə ˈmeɪk ə ˈmɪstri ˈsed ˈhiː | ˈlɑːfɪŋ || ðə ˈmætə wəz ˈpɜːfɪkli ˈsɪmpl̩ || ju əv ˈkɔːs ˈsɔː | ðət ˈevriwʌn ɪn ðə ˈstriːt | wəz ən əˈkʌmplɪs || ðeɪ wər ˈɔːl ɪŋˈɡeɪʤ fə ði ˈiːvnɪŋ

aɪ ˈɡest əz ˈmʌʧ

ˈðen | ˈwen ðə ˈraʊ ˈbrəʊk ˈaʊt | aɪ hæd ə ˈlɪtl̩ ˈmɔɪs ˈreb ˈpeɪnt | ɪn ðə ˈpɑːm ə maɪ ˈhænd || aɪ ˈrʌʃ ˈfɔːwəd | ˈfel ˈdaʊn | ˈklæp maɪ ˈhæn tə maɪ ˈfeɪs | əm bɪˈkeɪm ə ˈpɪtiəs ˈspektəkl̩ || ɪts ən ˈəʊld | ˈtrɪk

ˈðæt ˈɔːlsəʊ aɪ kəd ˈfæðm

ˈðen ðeɪ ˈkærib mi ˈɪn || ʃi wəz ˈbaʊn tə ˈhæv mi ɪn || ˈwɒt ˈels kəd ʃi ˈduː || ən ˈɪntu ɜː ˈsɪtɪŋ ˈruːm | wɪʧ wəz ðə ˈveri ˈruːm | wɪʧ aɪ səˈspektɪd || ɪt ˈleɪ bəˈtwiːn ˈðæt | ən ɜː ˈbedruːm | ən aɪ wəz dəˈtɜːmɪn tə ˈsiː ˈwɪʧ || ðeɪ ˈleɪb mi ˈɒn ə ˈkaʊʧ | aɪ ˈməʊʃn̩ fər ˈeə | ðeɪ wə kəmˈpel tu ˈəʊpən ðə ˈwɪndəʊ | ən ju ˈhæʤɔː ˈʧɑːns

ˈhaʊ dɪd ˈðæt ˈhelp ju

ɪt wəz ˈɔːl ɪmˈpɔːtn̩t || ˈwen ə ˈwʊmən ˈθɪŋks ðət ɜː ˈhaʊs ɪz ˈɒn ˈfaɪə | hər ˈɪnstɪŋkt | ɪz ət ˈwʌns tə ˈrʌʃ | tə ðə ˈθɪŋ wɪʧ ʃi ˈvaljuːz ˈməʊst || ɪts ə ˈpɜːfɪkli ˈəʊvəˈpaʊərɪŋ ˈɪmpʌls | ən aɪv ˈmɔː ðə ˈwʌns | ˈteɪkən ədˈvɑːntɪʤ əv ɪt || ɪn ðə ˈkeɪs ə ðə ˈdɑːlɪŋtən ˈsʌbstəˈʧuːʃn̩ ˈskændl̩ | ɪt wəz əv ˈjuːs tə mi | ən ˈɔːlsəʊ ɪn ði ˈɑːnzwəθ ˈkɑːsl̩ ˈbɪznəs || ə ˈmærid ˈwʊmən | ˈɡræbz ət ɜː ˈbeɪbi | ən ˈʌnˈmærid ˈwʌn | ˈriːʧɪz fər ə ˈʤuːəl ˈbɒks || ˈnaʊ ɪt wəz ˈklɪə tə mi | ðət ɑː ˈleɪdi əv təˈdeɪ | ˈhæd ˈnʌθɪŋ ɪn ðə ˈhaʊs ˈmɔː ˈpreʃəs tu ə | ðən ˈwɒt wɪər ɪŋ ˈkwest ˈɒv || ʃi wʊd ˈrʌʃ tə səˈkjɔːr ɪt || ði əˈlɑːm əv ˈfaɪə | wəz ˈæbmrəbli ˈdʌn || ðə ˈsməʊk ən ˈʃaʊtɪŋ | wər əˈnʌf tə ˈʃeɪk ˈnɜːvz əv ˈstiːl || ʃi rɪˈspɒndɪb ˈbjuːtəfli || ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːfs ɪn ə ˈriːses | bəˈhaɪnd ə ˈslaɪdɪŋ ˈpænl̩ | ˈʤʌst əˈbʌv ðə ˈraɪp ˈbel ˈpʊl || ʃi wəz ˈðeər ɪn ən ˈɪnstənt | ən aɪ ˈkɔːt ə ˈɡlɪmps əv ɪt | əʒ ʃi ˈhɑːf ˈdruː ɪt ˈaʊt || ˈwen aɪ ˈkraɪd ˈaʊt | ðət ɪt wəz ə ˈfɔːls əˈlɑːm | ʃi rɪˈpleɪst ɪt | ˈɡlɑːnst ət ðə ˈrɒkɪt | ˈrʌʃ frəm ðə ˈruːm | ən aɪv ˈnɒt ˈsiːn ə ˈsɪns || aɪ ˈrəʊz | əm ˈmeɪkɪŋ maɪ ɪkˈskjuːsɪz | ɪˈskeɪp frəm ðə ˈhaʊs || aɪ ˈhezəteɪtɪd | ˈweðə tu əˈtemt tə səˈkjɔː ðə ˈfəʊtəɡrɑːf ət ˈwʌns | bət ðə ˈkəʊʧmən əɡ ˈkʌm ˈɪn | ən ˈæz i wəz ˈwɒʧɪŋ mi ˈnærəli | ɪt ˈsiːm ˈseɪfə tə ˈweɪt || ə ˈlɪtl ˈəʊvə prəˈsɪpətəns | meɪ ˈruːɪn ˈɔːl

“You did it very nicely, Doctor,” he remarked. “Nothing could have been better. It is all right.”

“You have the photograph?”

“I know where it is.”

“And how did you find out?”

“She showed me, as I told you she would.”

“I am still in the dark.”

“I do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing. “The matter was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening.”

“I guessed as much.”

“Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick.”

“That also I could fathom.”

“Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance.”

“How did that help you?”

“It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington substitution scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she half-drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly it seemed safer to wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all.”

A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 2, part 12

ˈsləʊli ən ˈsɒləmli | hi wəz ˈbɔːn ɪntə ˈbraɪəni ˈlɒʤ | ən ˈleɪd ˈaʊt | ɪn ðə ˈprɪnsəpl̩ ˈruːm | waɪl ˈaɪ ˈstɪl əbˈzɜːvd ðə prəˈsiːdɪŋz | frəm maɪ ˈpəʊs baɪ ðə ˈwɪndəʊ || ðə ˈlæmps əb biːn ˈlɪt | bət ðə ˈblaɪnz əd ˈnɒp biːn ˈdrɔːn | səʊ ðət aɪ kəd ˈsiː ˈhəʊmz | əz i ˈleɪ əˈpɒn ðə ˈkaʊʧ || aɪ ˈdəʊnt ˈnəʊ | ˈweðər i wəz ˈsiːz wɪð kəmˈpʌŋʃn̩ ət ˈðæp ˈməʊmənt | fə ðə ˈpɑːt i wəz ˈpleɪɪŋ | bət aɪ ˈnəʊ ðət aɪ ˈnevə ˈfelt ˈmɔː ˈhɑːtəli əˈʃeɪmd ə məˈself | ɪm maɪ ˈlaɪf | ðən ˈwen aɪ ˈsɔː ðə ˈbjuːtəfl̩ ˈwʊmən | əˈɡenst ˈhuːm aɪ wəz kənˈspaɪərɪŋ | ɔː ðə ˈɡreɪs əŋ ˈkaɪnlɪnəs | wɪð ˈwɪʧ ʃi ˈweɪtɪd əˈpɒn ði ˈɪnʤəb ˈmæn || ən ˈjet ɪt əb ˈbiː ðə ˈdɑːkɪs ˈtreʧəri tə ˈhəʊmz | tə ˈdrɔː ˈbæk ˈnaʊ | frəm ðə ˈpɑːt wɪʧ id ɪnˈtrʌstɪd tə mi || aɪ ˈhɑːdn̩ maɪ ˈhɑːt | ən ˈtʊk ðə ˈsməʊk ˈrɒkɪt | frəm maɪ ˈʌlstə || ˈɑːftər ˈɔːl aɪ ˈθɔːt | wɪə ˈnɒt ˈɪnʤərɪŋ hɜː || wɪə bət prɪˈventɪŋ ə frəm ˈɪnʤərɪŋ əˈnʌðə

ˈhəʊmz əd ˈsæt ˈʌp əˈpɒn ðə ˈkaʊʧ  | ən aɪ ˈsɔːr ɪm ˈməʊʃn̩ | laɪk ə ˈmæn huz ɪn ˈniːd əv ˈeə || ə ˈmeɪd ˈrʌʃt əˈkrɒs | ən ˈθruː ˈəʊpən ðə ˈwɪndəʊ || ət ðə ˈseɪm ˈɪnstənt | aɪ ˈsɔːr ɪm ˈreɪz ɪz ˈhænd | ən ˈæt ðə ˈsɪɡnl̩ | aɪ ˈtɒs maɪ ˈrɒkɪt ɪntə ðə ˈruːm | wɪð ə ˈkraɪ əv ˈfaɪə || ðə ˈwɜːd wəz ˈnəʊ ˈsuːnər ˈaʊt ə maɪ ˈmaʊθ | ðən ðə ˈhəʊl ˈkraʊd əv spekˈteɪtəz | ˈwel ˈdrest ən ˈɪl | ˈʤentl̩mən | ˈɒsləz | ən ˈsɜːvm̩p ˈmeɪdz | ˈʤɔɪnd ɪn ə ˈʤenrəl ˈʃriːk əv ˈfaɪə || ˈθɪk ˈklaʊdz ə ˈsməʊk | ˈkɜːld ˈθruː ðə ˈruːm | ən ˈaʊt ət ði ˈəʊpən ˈwɪndəʊ || aɪ ˈkɔːt ə ˈɡlɪmps əv ˈrʌʃɪŋ ˈfɪɡəz | ən ə ˈməʊmənt ˈleɪtə | ðə ˈvɔɪs əv ˈhəʊmz frəm wɪˈðɪn | əˈʃɔːrɪŋ ðəm ðət ɪt wəz ˈfɔːls əˈlɑːm || ˈslɪpɪŋ θruː ðə ˈʃaʊtɪŋ ˈkraʊd | aɪ ˈmeɪb maɪ ˈweɪ | tə ðə ˈkɔːnər ə ðə ˈstriːt | ən ɪn ˈten ˈmɪnɪts | wəz rəˈʤɔɪs tə ˈfaɪm maɪ ˈfrenz ˈɑːm ɪm ˈmaɪn | ən tə ˈɡet əˈweɪ | frəm ðə ˈsiːn əv ˈʌprɔː || hi ˈwɔːkt ˈswɪfli ən ɪn ˈsaɪləns | fə ˈsʌm ˈfjuː ˈmɪnɪts | ənˈtɪl wid ˈtɜːn ˈdaʊn ˈwʌn ə ðə ˈkwaɪət ˈstriːts | wɪʧ ˈliːd təˈwɔːd ði ˈeʤweə ˈrəʊd

Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but preventing her from injuring another.

Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of “Fire!” The word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill—gentlemen, ostlers, and servant-maids—joined in a general shriek of “Fire!” Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend's arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware Road.

A Scandal in Bohemia, Chapter 2, part 11

ˈæz i ˈspəʊk | ðə ˈɡliːm ə ðə ˈsaɪd ˈlaɪts əv ə ˈkærɪʤ | ˈkeɪm ˈraʊn ðə ˈkɜːv ə ði ˈævənjuː || ɪt wəz ə ˈsmɑːt ˈlɪtl̩ ˈlændɔː | wɪʧ ˈrætl̩d ˈʌp tə ˈdɔːr əv ˈbraɪəni ˈlɒʤ || ˈæz ɪp ˈpʊld ˈʌp | ˈwʌn ə ðə ˈləʊfɪŋ ˈmen ət ðə ˈkɔːnə | ˈdæʃ ˈfɔːwəd | tu ˈəʊpən ðə ˈdɔːr | ɪn ðə ˈhəʊp əv ˈɜːnɪŋ ə ˈkɒpə | bət wəz ˈelbəʊd əˈweɪ | baɪ əˈnʌðə ˈləʊfə | hud ˈrʌʃt ˈʌp | wɪð ðə ˈseɪm ɪnˈtenʃn̩ || ə ˈfɪəs ˈkwɒrəl ˈbrəʊk ˈaʊt | wɪʧ wəz ɪŋˈkriːs baɪ ðə ˈtuː ˈɡɑːdzmən | hu ˈtʊk ˈsaɪdz wɪð ˈwʌn ə ðə ˈlaʊnʤəz | əm baɪ ðə ˈsɪzə ˈɡraɪndə | hu wəz ˈiːkwəli ˈhɒt əˈpɒn ði ˈʌðə ˈsaɪd || ə ˈbləʊ wəz ˈstrʌk | ən ˈɪn ən ˈɪnstənt | ðə ˈleɪdi | hud ˈstep frəm ɜː ˈkærɪʤ | wəz ðə ˈsentər əv ə ˈlɪtl̩ ˈnɒt | əv ˈflʌʃt ən ˈstrʌɡlɪŋ ˈmen | hu ˈstrʌk ˈsævɪʤli ət iːʧ ˈʌðə | wɪð ðeə ˈfɪsts ən ˈstɪks || ˈhəʊmz ˈdæʃt ɪntə ðə ˈkraʊd | tə prəˈtek ðə ˈleɪdi | bət ˈʤʌst əz i ˈriːʧt ə | hi ˈɡeɪv ə ˈkraɪ | ə ˈdrɒp tə ðə ˈɡraʊnd | wɪð ðə ˈblʌd ˈrʌnɪŋ ˈfriːli ˈdaʊn ɪz ˈfeɪs || ˈæt ɪz ˈfɔːl | ðə ˈɡɑːdzmən ˈtʊk tə ðeə ˈhiːlz ɪn ˈwʌn dəˈrekʃn̩ | ən ðə ˈlaʊnʤəz ˈɪn ði ˈʌðə | waɪl ə ˈnʌmbər ə ˈbetə ˈdres ˈpiːpl̩ | hud ˈwɒʧ ðə ˈskʌfl̩ | wɪˈðaʊt ˈteɪkɪŋ ˈpɑːt ɪn ɪt | ˈkraʊdɪd ˈɪn tə ˈhelp ðə ˈleɪdi | ən tu əˈten tə ði ˈɪnʤəb ˈmæn || ˈaɪriːn ˈædlə | əz aɪl ˈstɪl ˈkɔːl ə | həd ˈhʌrid ˈʌp ðə ˈsteps | bət ʃi ˈstʊd ət ðə ˈtɒp | wɪð ɜː suˈpɜːb ˈfɪɡə | ˈaʊtlaɪnd əˈɡens ðə ˈlaɪts ə ðə ˈhɔːl | ˈlɔːkɪŋ ˈbæk ɪntə ðə ˈstriːt

ɪz ðə ˈpɔː ˈʤentl̩mən ˈmʌʧ ˈhɜːt ʃi ˈɑːst

hiz ˈdeɡ ˈkraɪd ˈsevrəl ˈvɔɪsɪz

ˈnəʊ | ˈnəʊ | ðəz ˈlaɪf ɪn ɪm ˈʃaʊtɪd əˈnʌðə || bət il bi ˈɡɒm bəˈfɔː ju kəŋ ˈɡet ɪm tə ˈhɒspətl̩

hiz ə ˈbreɪv ˈfeləʊ ˈsed ə ˈwʊmən || ðeɪd əv ˈhæd ðə ˈleɪdiz ˈpɜːs ən ˈwɒʧ | ɪf ɪt ˈhæbm̩ ˈbiːn fə ˈhɪm || ðeɪ wər ə ˈɡæŋ | ən ə ˈrʌf ˈwʌn ˈtuː | ˈɑː | hiz ˈbriːðɪŋ | ˈnaʊ

hi ˈkɑːnt ˈlaɪ ɪn ðə ˈstriːt || ˈmeɪ wi ˈbrɪŋ ɪm ˈɪm ˈmɑːm

ˈʃɔːli || ˈbrɪŋ ɪm ˈɪntə ðə ˈsɪtɪŋ ˈruːm || ðəz ə ˈkʌmftəbl̩ ˈsəʊfə | ˈðɪs ˈweɪ ˈpliːz

 Doyle, Arthur Conan. The Original Illustrated Sherlock Holmes. “Reproduced from the original publication in The Strand Magazine with the classic illustrations by Sidney Paget.” Edison, New Jersey: Castle Books, [after 1954]. Internet Archive version of a copy donated by Friends of the San Francisco Library. http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/pagets/8.html

As he spoke the gleam of the side-lights of a carriage came round the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but just as he reached her he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while a number of better-dressed people, who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back into the street.

“Is the poor gentleman much hurt?” she asked.

“He is dead,” cried several voices.

“No, no, there's life in him!” shouted another. “But he'll be gone before you can get him to hospital.”

“He's a brave fellow,” said a woman. “They would have had the lady's purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he's breathing now.”

“He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?”

“Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!”