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I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather

ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round

shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of

red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's

name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were

scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a

hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was

cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places,

although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the

discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

"I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail,

however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in

drawing your inferences."

"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"