One summer day, in July of 1896, I wanted to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There was no urgent or critical reason. I had simply not seen him in a while and I hoped to spend some time with him, perhaps help him with some case, or merely converse and have a smoke. After learning of Holmes' marriage, I occasionally stayed away, out of respect for the couple's privacy. Part of me was overjoyed that Holmes, like myself, was an old married man. I had often worried about him spending so much time alone, after my own marriage took me away from Baker Street, for he was subject to the blackest moods brought on by lack of cases and isolation. However, the knowledge that he also had Emily as a companion proved that there was no need of worry. Another part of me still longed for the days when I thought he was a bachelor. Even though I was married myself, spending time with the "bachelor" Holmes was something of a treat.
To safeguard the secret of Holmes and Emily's marriage, over the years, I have altered Holmes words here and there in certain accounts. For instance, in The Valley of Fear, I wrote the line: "Should I ever marry, Watson, I should hope to inspire my wife with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by a housekeeper when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her." What Holmes actually said was this: "If I were dead, Watson, I should hope that I had inspired Emily with some feeling which would prevent her from being walked off by Mrs. Hudson when my corpse was lying within a few yards of her." Holmes often edited his own statements when there were strangers present, but occasionally I rephrased his words myself to obliterate all references to Emily from my accounts. There are too many adventures to name in which Emily was a player, or indeed even the main player, but instead of recounting them all here, I leave it to the reader to deduce which. Emily herself did not care one way or another: anonymity suited her just fine, but Holmes was insistent.
"I have many enemies," he reminded me. "There are those of a vindictive bent who, instead of harming me, might be satisfied just as well by lashing out against my wife." I thought of my own dear lady at home, and his concern seemed completely natural. During the investigations themselves, Holmes passed Emily off as his step-sister, much as Abraham had claimed that his wife was his sister to avoid being killed for her, though Holmes concern was more for Emily's welfare than for his own.
On this particular day, I stood outside the door of 221B Baker Street, looking up at the large sitting room windows with their cheerful draperies, feeling a strange anxiety of expectancy. I rang the bell and Mrs. Hudson appeared shortly and bade me come in. Unfortunately, she informed me that Mr. Holmes was not home at present and was, in fact, meeting a friend at Hyde Park for a fencing match. Apart from me, Holmes did not have many friends and, of the few friends of his I knew, largely comprised of those admirers and contemporaries of his in the police departments, none of them fenced. I assumed, therefore, that this friend must have been an acquaintance from his college days, when he was an active fencer, or earlier in his eventful life.
The sitting room itself seemed as anxious for Holmes' return as I, holding its breath, remaining suspended in time until he entered. When he and I had shared these rooms, I sat there alone for most of the day, save when his early cases retired me to my bedroom, but it never seemed empty. It was only after my marriage and subsequent departure that Holmes seemed a necessary ornament to the room. The area was quite cluttered, as usual, yet it appeared utterly deserted in his absence. I decided to wait in this lonely room for whatever the duration and I was overcome by a feeling of solitude. In order to assuage my desolate sensations, I fiddled with Holmes violin, read the newspapers scattered about, and finally resolved to smoke to while away the time. After I had finished a few cigars, the housekeeper knocked gently and I eagerly asked her to enter. When she entered, she was carrying a telegram on her salver.
"This just arrived," said she. "I thought that, since you have so often helped Mr. Holmes, you might have occasion to read it."
"Has Mr. Holmes been expecting this?" I asked.
"No, Doctor, but I am sure that it will be the start of some great case."
"It could be important," said I, "so I shall take it to him straightaway."
"Are you not going to read it?"
"Of course I shall read it, but en route. There is no time to lose."
The telegram read thus:
My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes -- My husband and I have lost
something of great value. Will you come?
Mrs. Violet Morton née Smith.
I deemed it best to send a reply to Mrs. Morton, as it might serve to calm her nerves. My message was this:
Mrs. Morton -- Mr. Holmes has not yet read your cable, but
I shall have him on his way as soon as I am able.
J. Watson.
From the dispatch office, I instructed my cabbie to make directly for the park. Once there, it took me no time to find Holmes and his competitor. The other man was a sight! I had always thought Holmes a thin man, but one glance at this fellow changed my mind forever. He had surpassed Holmes' thinness by far and I daresay entered into his own realm of slimness. His fencing garb hung so loosely on him that I believed it would scarcely stay on him of its own will. His suit resembled the excessive folds of skin on the cattle I had seen roaming the streets of India when I was an army surgeon stationed in the East. Even I, as a doctor, had never seen a healthy man so thin. He was not, however, without energy. He fenced skillfully. He rushed upon Holmes with a forward thrust that knocked my friend off balance, and Holmes fell supine to the ground. He lay still as death for a moment and then sat up, pulling his legs up to his breast. Holmes removed his mask and folded his arms on his knees as he called to me.
"Watson, what the deuce are you doing here?" His opponent extended his hand, helping Holmes to his feet.
"I found myself at Baker Street awaiting your return," said I, "when a telegram arrived. I suggested to Mrs. Hudson that I should bring it round to you."
"Capital, Watson!"
I began to walk closer to them, and, as I did so, the face of Holmes' opponent, which had been unclear under the wire mask, came into focus. It was a man with a brown hair and a similarly hued moustache, but with peculiarly feminine features. I stared for some minutes at the gentleman, and I was appalled when I realized that it was Emily. She raised a warning finger to her the wire of her mask to quiet me as we boarded my waiting cab. Her manner of speaking surprised me.
"John, I shan't tell if you won't," said she.
"Why are you wearing male fencing garb?" I asked.
"Sherlock's fencing garb, to be more precise. I was simply fencing, and doing a good job of it, as well." Holmes glared at her playfully.
"But why were you impersonating a man?" I asked.
"Were you fooled?" she inquired.
"I must admit that I was," I answered, "but why?"
"Ha! I could have fooled anyone then!" she exclaimed.
"I resent that!" I retorted.
"Oh, no, my dear fellow," she added, patting my forearm. "I mean it as neither an insult to your perception nor to your intelligence. I was indicating that if you, knowing me better than all of London, were deceived, then I should not have to worry about deluding perfects strangers."
"But why the disguise?" I asked again.
"Fencing is a man's sport, John. Would you not have been more surprised to see me as myself fencing in a dress?"
"I did not think of it that way," said I.
"Even though my dressing as a man may be shocking to you," said she, "there are instances in which my not dressing as a man would cause more of a stir. The loose suit gives the impression that I am an excessively lean man, and not a woman, by hiding my womanly shape. Besides, it is a difficult task at best to fence in heavy skirts. You should attempt it sometime! While long skirts provide the benefit of hiding one's legs and masking one's next move, the hindrance to movement is a decided disadvantage. Now, where is this telegram which is so important?"
"I have it here," said I, pulling it from my pocket. "It is from one of your former clients, Holmes."
"Who?"
"Our Miss Violet Smith," said I. "I took the liberty of sending a reply."
"Which said?" he asked.
"That we are on our way."
He nodded with this compliment: "Good thinking." He then motioned for me to read the wire aloud. "It's very vague," he said, evidently puzzled. "I wonder what is missing that is so troubling our bicycling friend. A large South African diamond, perhaps?"
"That would account for her obvious agitation," Emily added.
"Not so obvious to me, I fear," said I. "How do you know she is agitated?"
"I know because she sent a telegram," she answered. "Why would a telegram be a herald of agitation, John?"
"I am sure that I do know," said I.
"Think it through, Watson," Holmes said. "Do not be discouraged because you reach your conclusions more slowly than we. The important thing is that you do reach them. Swiftness comes with practice. Emily and I have at least a two-decade head start on you, but you have improved immensely in your acumen since we first met." It took me a few strenuous moments of deep thought but I arrived at what I believed a possible explanation.
"Women tend to send letters," I began, "but telegrams travel faster. She was upset, so she sent a telegram to get the message to Holmes as soon as possible."
"Exactly!" exclaimed Emily, beaming. "Telegrams are priority post and are usually delivered within an hour or two of being dispatched. The regular post is much slower. Bravo, John!" I was not quite sure if she was in earnest or just humoring me; I was pleased with myself, however, so I did not care deeply.
"We must change quickly and be off to Coventry," said Holmes when we were almost back to 221B. "We can just make the next train."
"Holmes, how could you possibly know the telegram was from Coventry," I cried. "It only says so on the envelope which is still in my breast pocket."
"I have a good memory for minutiae," said he. "Last year when Miss Smith visited us with the pretty little problem of The Solitary Cyclist, she stated that her fiancé was employed in Coventry."
"A good memory?" I gasped. "I should call that an exceptional memory!"
Upon arriving at Baker Street, Holmes and Emily rushed upstairs to change their attire, whilst I explained the situation to a flustered Mrs. Hudson. They emerged an amazingly short time later discussing the fencing match.
"You could never defeat me before, Sherlock," Emily said at the onset of the conversation. "What gave you the desire to try again?"
"I have waxed stronger since my youth," Holmes answered as we boarded the waiting four-wheeler, "and I hoped a greater amount of force would aid me."
"Victory in fencing depends on skill, not might, as you well know," said she. "Otherwise, I could never have bested you."
"I can still outbox you," said he.
"Of course you can, and you always will be able to do so. You are a first-rate boxer and, for you, it is a necessity. I, however," said she, pulling a two-shot derringer from her handbag, "require other forms of protection. Your fencing faults," she continued, as she replaced her weapon, "are easily analyzed. Your straight thrusts were never superb and were always susceptible to my parries."
"I shall have to work on them," said he.
"Perhaps," she answered kindly, "one day I may coach you instead of combatting you."
Once in Coventry, we made for the Morton's house at once, and were shown into the drawing room immediately upon our arrival. The room was arranged as follows: On the east wall was a large sofa with a low table in front. The north wall had a large hearth situated between two doors leading to the main entry hall. The west wall had a smaller sofa, over which hung a portrait of the couple, with another table. North of the sofa was a door leading to the library; to the south was a hall that seemed to run the length of the house. There was an alcove in the west half of the south wall, which contained a writing desk on the southernmost wall, an aquarium on the alcove's east wall, and a piano and bench that made a forty-five degree angle between the western and southern walls of the alcove.
I confined my observations to the alcove, while Holmes and Emily made a preliminary examination of the remainder of the room. I did not find anything of great moment, or even anything that had a bearing on the case, but my earlier success had boosted my spirits, and I attempted, to the best of my ability, to apply Holmes' methods. Within the space of a few moments, Mrs. Morton joined us, greeted us warmly.
"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, I am so glad that you have come," said she.
"This is my step-sister, Miss Emily Chrane," said Holmes, "who is occasionally good enough to aid me in my investigations."
Mrs. Morton was an exceptionally lovely woman before her marriage, and the securing of her inheritance. Could it be possible, however, that she was even more beautiful afterward? She blushed as I said, "I do believe, Mrs. Morton, that marriage must agree with you."
"Thank you, Dr. Watson," said she sweetly. Her face positively glowed.
"Have you learned that new Chopin piece for the party this Saturday?" I asked.
Mrs. Morton shook her head. "Usually playing has a most relaxing effect on me, but I have not been able to think of it for the last two days." Her eyes widened. "How on earth did you know that?" she marveled.
"Yes, how did you know that, Watson?" Holmes asked.
"It was elementary, Holmes," said I. "I observed a party invitation on the writing desk with this Saturday's date. Mrs. Morton, being an accomplished musician, is likely to entertain her guests with her playing. There is a piece of music on the piano, which would indicate that it is the present object of study, and the piece is by Chopin."
"You are a clever little devil, John," said Emily, winking in my direction. "How did you ascertain that the piece was new, and not an old one, her memory of which she was refreshing?" she asked, as she walked toward the piano.
"I guessed," said I.
Emily inspected the piece. "One of my favorites ... You should not guess, John," said she. "It is a dangerous habit to form, for it is destructive to the reasoning process. You come to rely on probability rather than certainty, and in some cases it is too risky to speculate. Play the odds on horses all you want, but do not gamble when it comes to people. For future reference, the crispness of the paper suggests that the score is new."
"My husband," said Mrs. Morton, "should be along in a few minutes. It was he who saw the entirety of the incident."
"What exactly was the incident?" Holmes inquired.
"A large diamond of mine is missing. There was an attempt to steal it, along with my other jewels, but all the others were recovered."
"How large was this diamond?" he queried.
"Fifty-one grains," she answered.
"That would make quite a plunder, even if the thief took nothing else. How was it cut?"
"It was of a brilliant cut," she replied.
"Being so large a stone," said Holmes, "it would make a rather ostentatious piece of jewelry, so I imagine it was not in any sort of setting?"
"You are correct, Mr. Holmes," she answered. "It was not set. It was more of a conversation piece than an ornament."
"The house and grounds have been thoroughly searched?"
"Yes, and there is no sign of it."
"Who is the official agent in this matter?" Holmes inquired.
"Inspector Gillis," Mrs. Morton stated. Holmes' eyebrows rose far from imperceptibly. The name sounded familiar to me also.
"Gillis?" I asked. "You've mentioned him to me before, Holmes, have you not?"
"I believe I have," said he with a smirk. "I have worked with him before."
"Is he not the inspector with the persistence of a bulldog?" I asked.
"That is he," Holmes answered, chuckling. "Unfortunately, he has the intelligence of a bulldog, as well. However, once I convince him that I am correct, he will follow my theories to the ends of the Earth. He is a most helpful ally when he has seen the truth."
Mr. Cyril Morton entered the drawing room shortly. He was a very handsome man, quite worthy of such an attractive wife. He was tall and husky, of a somewhat bovine build with broad shoulders and a barreling chest. He had a thoughtful face with a contemplative, wrinkled brow, and a strong, set jaw. My first impression, based on only his build, was that he was an easily angered man. His kind nature dispelled this assumption, for his demeanor revealed an amiable man.
"Cyril, this is Miss Chrane, Mr. Holmes, and Dr. Watson," said Mrs. Morton when he entered.
"Hello," said he, and to his wife, "I am so sorry that I am late, my dear. I was detained at the office."
"Mr. Morton," Holmes said, "please give us your account of what has occurred here."
"Two nights ago," Morton began, "my wife and I were asleep in our bedroom, when we were awakened by a noise in this room. I came to investigate."
"What time was that?" Holmes asked.
"It was almost half past one," said he.
"Where is your bedroom?"
"It is at the end of this hall," Morton answered, pointing to the long hall "on the right."
"How long do you estimate that it took you to travel from that room to this?" Holmes inquired.
"About thirty seconds, I imagine," Morton replied.
"Could you repeat the action," Holmes queried, "so we may time it?"
"Of course," said he as he motioned for us all to follow him down the hall. We filed into the room and all looked to Holmes for indications of what we should next do.
"To make it almost genuine, we shall go back into the other room, and call when you are to return. Be sure to do everything just as you did two nights ago."
Holmes, Emily and myself returned to the drawing room. When Holmes had taken his watch from its pocket, he yelled, "Now!" Morton rejoined us shortly, with his dressing gown thrown on sloppily over his clothes, and Holmes replaced his watch as he said, "Thirty-two seconds. I extol your estimate. Most would be too flustered to estimate that accurately." His manner of speaking now changed, assuming the quality of thinking aloud. "That would be ample time to flee through the window, unless . . . perhaps he did not sense discovery . . . or . . . "
"He was detained somehow," Emily said, "and could not make good his escape."
"I think he had fallen, Miss Chrane," Morton asserted.
"Why do you think so?" Holmes asked.
"The piano had rolled a few feet, and the piano bench was overturned," he answered. "Also, it looked as if he had just stood as I entered, and his hair was ruffled."
"Excellent, but how could you see this?" Holmes queried.
"He had a lantern with him. I'm sure that it was his cry and the sound of his crashing against the piano that woke me."
Holmes nodded in agreement. "I assume," Holmes continued, "that you retrieved that revolver on that night?"
Morton was clearly surprised as he produced the firearm from his pocket. "This is a part of a collection I inherited from my father. You did say to repeat the events exactly, so I slipped it into the pocket of my dressing gown as I did on that night. It was with this that I held him at bay."
"Then what happened?" Holmes inquired.
"He dropped a small black bag when he saw me. He then turned to the window and yelled, 'Run, Georgie, run!' My wife woke the butler and sent him for the police, whilst I confined the scoundrel in this room."
"Mr. Holmes!" cried a voice from outside the open window.
"Inspector Gillis!" said Holmes, without turning. A few moments later the man joined us in the drawing room. He was a short and portly man with a ruddy face. His sunken, beady eyes peered expectantly from behind dirty spectacles. I felt an overwhelming urge to laugh when I saw him, for he was very comical, but I repressed the inclination with difficulty.
"Have you apprehended the confederate from outside the house?" Holmes asked.
"No, Mr. Holmes," replied the Inspector, "but we have the other one. Rickerson, his name is."
"We have not been outside as yet," said Holmes. "There are prints outside the window, I presume?"
"Inside and out. There is a well-marked print on the window seat."
"Yes, square-toed right boot print missing part of the heel," said Holmes. "I noticed it."
"The prints outside," Gillis continued, "are not very clearly defined. It rained here last night."
"Rain: it is alternately the detective's greatest friend and his worst enemy. It allows critical impressions to be made and then washes them away. Have you interviewed the jewelers in the area?" The Inspector shook his head as. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. We must check the obvious places first, Gillis!" said Holmes patronizingly. "Well, you may leave that to us, if you will kindly point us in the right direction."
Gillis scrawled out a quick list.
"Mr. Morton, I suppose that the jewels were taken from this wall-safe," Emily called, pointing at the portrait.
"How did you know there was a safe behind it?" he asked.
"Why else would a picture frame have hinges?" she remarked, shrugging. Sherlock Holmes and Emily Chrane studied the scene carefully for a few more moments, and we three then left to discover what we could at the jewelers.
There were only three jewelers in the immediate area. At the jewelers, our ruse was that Emily and I were engaged and inspecting different shops for a suitable wedding band. Holmes was acting as Emily's brother and chaperone.
"Why am I to be the groom?" I asked.
"Emily and I could pass for brother and sister," said Holmes, "but you and she could not."
"Does it bother you to be engaged to me, John?" Emily asked. I shook my head. "It is only for one afternoon. I think you will survive the ordeal." She then took my arm, and led me into the first shop.
At each shop, as we gazed at the rings, we would converse indifferently and work the conversation around to asking about the largest stone the jeweler has ever seen. We had only bad fortune at the first two, for no stones of that approximate weight had come through in at least two months. At the third, the jeweler recalled that a diamond of forty-eight grains had been appraised within the previous two days, but, alas, it was a marquise cut, not a brilliant cut and to be recut would have greatly diminished its weight.
"The stone could have traveled far away in two days," said Emily on the journey back to the Morton's home, "but I don't think it ever left the drawing room."
"Why not?" I asked.
"All the others were still there," said Holmes.
As we stepped from our four-wheeler, my friends raced around to the side of the house to see the prints in the yard. I trailed behind but arrived in time to hear Emily say, "These prints are not as muddled as we were led to believe. The large overhang of the roof saw to that." When once again inside, Holmes told Gillis that he could call off the search for Georgie.
"But we haven't caught him yet, Mr. Holmes!" Gillis exclaimed.
"You won't, either," Holmes retorted.
"If he's out there, by God, Mr. Holmes, we'll find him!" he remarked, slapping his fist into his hand emphatically.
"That's just it, Gillis," Holmes said. "He's not out there."
"Where is he, then?" Gillis asked impatiently.
"He doesn't exist."
"Really, Mr. Holmes! This is too much!" the Inspector shouted.
"The prints outside," Holmes cited, "were defined clearly enough for anyone to tell that there were none leading away. This was due, however, to the simple fact that the only criminal was led out the front door. Had Georgie run down the lane, he would have had to have jumped about twelve feet to have reached the lane without leaving prints." Gillis shook his head. "Well, Gillis, did he fly?"
"Perhaps he did not stand by the window," Gillis asserted.
"Where would you have stood?" Holmes asked. "If you were standing guard, you would stand by the window so that you could raise the alarm as quickly as possible, and at the lowest possible tone."
"I suppose that's right," said Gillis, "but, still, one set of that mess of prints could have been Georgie's."
"I still haven't convinced you there was no Georgie?" Holmes asked.
"No," Gillis answered with impertinence.
Holmes clapped his hands to his eyes despairingly. "All right," said he, sighing. "How about this: all of the right boot prints at the window are missing the back portion of the heel causing a triangle at the back of the print, just like the one the window-seat. Did he stand on his tiptoes just so we wouldn't get a good look at the impression of his heels?"
"I suppose you are right, but if so what happened to the jewel?" Gillis cried. "If Rickerson didn't have it on his person and there was no Georgie, where did it go?"
Holmes collapsed into the chair to the right of the window-seat, buried his head in his hands and said, "I don't know, Gillis. I just don't know . . . yet."
Holmes and Emily sat in the drawing room for some time to think. Mrs. Morston asked if we should leave the room and I, seeing that my friends were already lost in thought, answered for them, saying that it would not be necessary.
"Nothing," said I, "short of an alarm of fire or the roof's crashing in, could disturb their thought processes." Holmes drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair he occupied and Emily, on the sofa opposite him, tapped her digits lightly on each other.
In the meantime, I began to admire Mr. Morton's aquarium. Two of the fish, which were charcoal grey with orange spots, were much larger than the rest.
"What are these?" I asked.
"They are called Tiger Oscars."
"And the minnows?" I asked.
"Are food for the Oscars."
I shuddered as one of the Oscars slowly stalked up to one of the minnows, and opened its mouth. The smaller fish disappeared in an instant to the sound of a large popping noise. The other of the Oscars was sucking up the rocks into his mouth. "Is he eating the rocks?" I asked. Emily seemed to stop her contemplation to watch us.
"They don't eat them, Doctor. They just draw them into their mouths then spit them out. I am not certain why they do it, but they are forever rearranging their surroundings."
"How could I have been such a fool?" Emily suddenly cried, standing and clapping her hand to her forehead.
"Yes!" Holmes exclaimed, with a look of epiphany. He quickly shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves, baring his pale, sinewy arms. This action, which usually disgusted me, for it signified that he was about to indulge his cocaine addiction, filled me with anticipation on this occasion. "Mr. Morton, I apologize sincerely," said he as he plunged his arms into the aquarium. He felt about the gravel chips at the bottom, and produced the beautiful stone.
"You are forgiven, Mr. Holmes," said Morton, applauding, "exonerated completely, but tell us how you and Miss Chrane deduced this!"
"Even before we inspected the footprints," Holmes began, "we had suspicions that the jewel was here, somewhere."
"Why?" Gillis asked.
"Because the other jewels remained," said he, drying his arms with the towel Mrs. Morton brought him. "Why would Rickerson have given his accomplice the one jewel and not the others?" Holmes stated.
"Perhaps he was astonished by its size and beauty, and was showing it to his friend?" said Gillis.
"He would most likely save his astonishment for when he was safely in away from the scene," Holmes added. "Also, he was nowhere near the window when Mr. Morton discovered him. We had to check the jewelers the area, however, to be thorough. With the disproving of the 'Georgie' theory, we had to rely on the supposition that the stone never left the room. Rickerson probably began to walk backwards from the safe and, while careful to avoid the table, he was lost in the splendor of the stone, and forgot about the piano bench. When he tripped, he most likely threw his arms up to regain his balance, and the stone flew from his hands as he fell. Loosely applying the laws of ballistics, one can calculate the trajectory of the stone. It would fall into the aquarium, and the fish promptly buried it under the rocks. Diamonds are difficult to distinguish in water anyhow, and it does not help matters when the fish have a predisposition for burying things."
"Mr. Holmes," said Gillis, "there is still one thing I do not understand. Why should Rickerson want us to believe that there was another culprit?"
"Not us," said Holmes. "He was trying to distract Mr. Morton for a possible escape. Your first impulse was, Mr. Morton, to run after Georgie, was it not?"
"I must admit that it was, but I changed my mind, for I did not want to lose the prisoner I had. A bird in the hand, you know."
"Well said, indeed. Rickerson was probably planning to make a run for it; however, you changed your mind and, therefore, he had to change his."
"Rickerson had a chance to cut his sentence by telling us where the jewel was," said the Inspector. "Why did he not talk?"
"It is likely that he did not know its location," said Holmes. "If he were walking backwards, the stone would have flown behind him and, since he was falling, he would have been making too much noise himself to hear a splash." With this business concluded, we left for the train station.
On the train home to London, I was struck by a curious fact: Emily had hardly opened her mouth the entire afternoon. Holmes asked practically all of the questions and gave most of the answers and explanations. Her reason was simple.
"It was Sherlock's client and his case."
"You've asserted your own ideas before," I protested.
"Sherlock was doing quite fine on his own. I only intervene when he forgets something, or makes a mistake, or if my moment of insight comes before his, as it did today. We think along the same lines, however, so that is hardly ever a problem. We generally arrive at conclusions simultaneously." With all questions answered, then, and another case solved, we went back to Baker Street where we could converse, and where Holmes and I could have that long-awaited smoke.