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The winter of 1885 was marred by a terrifying epidemic of murders. The victims in this strange case were the poor, uncared for children of London, that vast and seething metropolis into which all the dregs of the world inevitably flowed. ""Another?"" Holmes asked, as I shook my head in revulsion over the evening paper. ""Two more,"" I said. ""This killer is oddly motivated,"" he mused. ""We have never seen such things,"" I commented. ""And yet, there is nothing new under the sun, my good fellow,"" said he. ""Recall Plutarch's tale of the ancient Spartans and their unwanted children."" ""Surely, that is mere legend,"" I proposed. ""Perhaps,"" said he, ""but it is illustrative."" The sound of wheels upon the crunching snow drew to a halt at our very door, then there was the ringing of the bell and a commotion. Holmes rose and pulled back the drapes which kept out the cold of the winter evening. ""It is Lestrade,"" he said, ""and a police coach. What can he want at this hour?"" ""Perhaps he only desires to give us the blessings of the season,"" I offered, ""and will not stay long."" Thus began a case so nightmarish that many still refuse to believe it, calling it a work of dark fiction.

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