it was a quarter-past nine when i started from home and made my way across the park, and so through oxford street to baker street. two hansoms were standing at the door, and as i entered the passage i heard the sound of voices from above. on entering his room, i found holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom i recognised as peter jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.