“Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a

suggestive one.”


“And it is—”


“That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has

actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a danseuse at

the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years. There are no

further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands now—so far as it

has been set forth in the public press.”


“And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not have

missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson, and as the clock

makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt that this will prove to be

our noble client. Do not dream of going, Watson, for I very much prefer having

a witness, if only as a check to my own memory.”


“Lord Robert St. Simon,” announced our page-boy, throwing open the

door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed and pale,

with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and with the steady,

well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever been to command and to

be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his general appearance gave an undue

impression of age, for he had a slight forward stoop and a little bend of the

knees as he walked. His hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat,

was grizzled round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was

careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white

waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured gaiters. He

advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left to right, and

swinging in his right hand the cord which held his golden eyeglasses.


“Good-day, Lord St. Simon,” said Holmes, rising and bowing.

“Pray take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.

Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over.”