little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way, with a promise to come

again whenever she might be summoned.


Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still pressed

together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward

to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old and oily clay pipe,

which was to him as a counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his

chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of

infinite languor in his face.


“Quite an interesting study, that maiden,” he observed. “I

found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is

rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in

Andover in ’77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last

year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new

to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive.”


“You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to

me,” I remarked.


“Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look, and

so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realise the

importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues

that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you gather from that

woman’s appearance? Describe it.”


“Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a feather

of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and a

fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker than

coffee colour, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves

were greyish and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I

didn’t observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general

air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way.”