problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being

criminal. We have already had experience of such.”


“So much so,” I remarked, “that of the last six cases which I

have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal

crime.”


“Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers,

to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man

with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall

into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?”


“Yes.”


“It is to him that this trophy belongs.”


“It is his hat.”


“No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon

it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as

to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with a good

fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of

Peterson’s fire. The facts are these: about four o’clock on

Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was

returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down

Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man,

walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his

shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between

this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the

man’s hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging

it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed

forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at

having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform

rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid

the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road.