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It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after

breakfast on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at

Baker Street. A thick fog rolled down between the lines of

dun-coloured houses, and the opposing windows loomed like dark,

shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit

and shone on the white cloth and glimmer of china and metal, for

the table had not been cleared yet. Sherlock Holmes had been

silent all the morning, dipping continuously into the

advertisement columns of a succession of papers until at last,

having apparently given up his search, he had emerged in no very

sweet temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.