“Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the

peculiar construction of the sentence—‘This account of you we have

from all quarters received.’ A Frenchman or Russian could not have

written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only

remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon

Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he

comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts.”


As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses’ hoofs and grating wheels

against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled.


“A pair, by the sound,” said he. “Yes,” he continued,

glancing out of the window. “A nice little brougham and a pair of

beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There’s money in this case,

Watson, if there is nothing else.”


“I think that I had better go, Holmes.”


“Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And

this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it.”


“But your client—”


“Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit

down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention.”


A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage,

paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative

tap.


“Come in!” said Holmes.


A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in

height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a

richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy

bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his

double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his

shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a

brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway