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My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands

in the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It

was a bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day

before still lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the

wintry sun. Down the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed

into a brown crumbly band by the traffic, but at either side and

on the heaped-up edges of the footpaths it still lay as white as

when it fell. The grey pavement had been cleaned and scraped, but

was still dangerously slippery, so that there were fewer

passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction of the

Metropolitan Station no one was coming save the single gentleman

whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.