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It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still

wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in

Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just

being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge,

waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such

as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes' succinct description,

but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On

the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was

remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men

smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his

wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and

several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with

cigars in their mouths.