notes,” he said.


Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed it to him.


“And Mademoiselle’s address?” he asked.


“Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”


Holmes took a note of it. “One other question,” said he. “Was

the photograph a cabinet?”


“It was.”


“Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some

good news for you. And good-night, Watson,” he added, as the wheels of

the royal brougham rolled down the street. “If you will be good enough to

call to-morrow afternoon at three o’clock I should like to chat this

little matter over with you.”


II.


At three o’clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet

returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after

eight o’clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire, however, with

the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was already deeply

interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim

and strange features which were associated with the two crimes which I have

already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station of his

client gave it a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the

investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly

grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a

pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle

methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed

was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had

ceased to enter into my head.


It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking groom,

ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes,

walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my friend’s amazing powers