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In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fog settled down uponLondon. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubt whether it was ever possible from our windowsin Baker Street to see the loom of the opposite houses. The first day Holmes had spent in crossindexing his huge book of references. The second and third had been patiently occupied upon asubject which he had recently made his hobby--the music of the Middle Ages. But when, for thefourth time, after pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy brown swirl stilldrifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon the window-panes, my comrade's impatient andactive nature could endure this drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our sitting-roomin a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tapping the furniture, and chafing against inaction. Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson? he said.I was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything of criminal interest. There wasthe news of a revolution, of a possible war, and of an impending change of government; but thesedid not come within the horizon of my companion. I could see nothing recorded in the shape ofcrime which was not commonplace and futile. Holmes groaned and resumed his restlessmeanderings.

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