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One night-it was on the twentieth of March, 1888-I was returning

from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil

practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed

the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my

mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in

Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and

to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms

were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall,

spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind.

He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon

his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his

every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own

story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created

dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the

bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in

part my own.