it was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when i was still sharing rooms with holmes in baker street, that he came home from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for him. i had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the jezail bullet which i had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my afghan campaign throbbed with dull persistence. with my body in one easy-chair and my legs upon another, i had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated with the news of the day, i tossed them all aside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend’s noble correspondent could be.