very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through.”


“Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently trying

to your nerves.”


“Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but,

between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this wound of

mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement, for it is a very

extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of proof with which to back

it up; and, even if they believe me, the clues which I can give them are so

vague that it is a question whether justice will be done.”


“Ha!” cried I, “if it is anything in the nature of a problem

which you desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to my

friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official police.”


“Oh, I have heard of that fellow,” answered my visitor, “and

I should be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must

use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to

him?”


“I’ll do better. I’ll take you round to him myself.”


“I should be immensely obliged to you.”


“We’ll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have

a little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?”


“Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story.”


“Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an

instant.” I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife, and

in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new acquaintance to Baker

Street.


Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room in his

dressing-gown, reading the agony column of The Times and smoking his

before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the plugs and dottles left

from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and collected on the

corner of the mantelpiece. He received us in his quietly genial fashion,