around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were

sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of

society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street,

buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine

and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen

nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and

occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in

following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which had been

abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some

vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the

Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson

brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished

so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these

signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of

the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion.


One night—it was on the twentieth of March, 1888—I was returning

from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my

way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which

must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark

incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see

Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His

rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare

figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the

room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped

behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner

told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his