royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted

with matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This

account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at

that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask.”


“This is indeed a mystery,” I remarked. “What do you imagine

that it means?”


“I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has

data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of

theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from it?”


I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was written.


“The man who wrote it was presumably well to do,” I remarked,

endeavouring to imitate my companion’s processes. “Such paper could

not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and

stiff.”


“Peculiar—that is the very word,” said Holmes. “It is

not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light.”


I did so, and saw a large “E” with a small “g,” a

“P,” and a large “G” with a small “t” woven

into the texture of the paper.


“What do you make of that?” asked Holmes.


“The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather.”


“Not at all. The ‘G’ with the small ‘t’ stands

for ‘Gesellschaft,’ which is the German for ‘Company.’

It is a customary contraction like our ‘Co.’ ‘P,’ of

course, stands for ‘Papier.’ Now for the ‘Eg.’ Let us

glance at our Continental Gazetteer.” He took down a heavy brown volume

from his shelves. “Eglow, Eglonitz—here we are, Egria. It is in a

German-speaking country—in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad.

‘Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its

numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.’ Ha, ha, my boy, what do you

make of that?” His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant

cloud from his cigarette.


“The paper was made in Bohemia,” I said.